by Bec McMaster
There.
Something shivers, deep below me.
“I can feel the Hallow,” I gasp, turning toward an ancient spiral staircase. “It’s still alive.”
Eris grabs my arm. “This Hallow has been forbidden for centuries. We don’t know if it’s even usable.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Behind her, a horrific rumble echoes through the stones.
“Is it just me?” Grimm asks, his fur rising along his spine, “Or can anyone else hear that dreadful rasping sound?”
I have no idea where he appeared from.
“It’s not just you,” Eris says, her face grim as she turns toward the throne room.
The doors slam open, the stones in the floors parting as if some enormous leviathan swims beneath them. The bleached skull of something monstrous tosses apart enormous blocks of slate as if they’re mere pebbles. I catch a glimpse of an ancient eye socket, gleaming with the eerie blue light of a wight’s magic.
“Is that a….” Andraste’s voice trails off.
“Dragon,” I whisper in horror, because the last of the great dragons died out centuries ago.
“Find that Hallow!” Eris screams, shoving me toward the stairs.
We sprint down the hallway as the creature shoulders its way through the floors behind us.
Down and down and down we go, boots hammering on the stone.
Creepy catacombs loom ahead of us.
Of course.
“This way!” I lunge through cobwebs, sweeping them aside with my sword.
A rat skitters past my boots—please let it be a rat—and then an enormous belch of blue flame rockets through the catacombs behind us.
Its heat blooms over my skin as I throw myself behind a stone statue of some headless armored prince. Knees stinging, I throw my arms over my face and belatedly shield. A bubble of air surrounds me, blue flame washing over the edges.
And then the flames die down.
I slowly lower my arms, gasping for breath. Little spot fires bloom all along the tunnel. An ancient pennant drips flame, and a channel of oil on the far side of the tunnel blazes with light.
The air tastes hot and ashy.
“Eris?” I yell.
Nothing.
“Andraste?”
My sister appears on quiet feet, jerking me upright even as she presses a finger to her lips. I’m so relieved to see someone alive—even her. I grab my sword from the ground, hissing as my hand closes around hot metal, though I dare not drop it.
“I don’t know where Eris went,” Andraste says, linking with me mentally. “We have to get out of here.”
“Not without her.”
The dragon is enormous, its skeletal tail lashing behind it as it lumbers around the corner of the catacombs. Once upon a time, it must have been as big as three houses, but all that remains are bones, bleached by the grave.
“I have an idea.” I point to the roof.
She understands instantly.
“Distract it!” She slips into the shadows.
“Hey, you!” I yell, stepping out of my hiding place and waving my hands.
The wight’s head turns toward me.
“That’s it, you big, ugly bastard. Focus on me!”
A gush of hot flame spews toward me and I scream, scrambling for cover and warding desperately.
Light spills through a crevice in the ceiling ahead of me. Another pair of columns have crumbled, leaving the straining roof supports collapsed against each other.
There’s more than one way to kill a dragon wight.
I skid to a halt in the middle of the hallway and turn.
The enormous creature seems to sense me, its head swiveling toward me and its nostrils flaring with blue fire as if it prepares to attack again.
“Run, Vi!” Andraste calls from where she’s scampering across the roof supports.
An enormous ball of blue flame shoots toward me. I’ll never make it in time—
A scream dies in my throat as I slam my crossed wrists up in front of me, willing a shield of pure air to form around me. The heat dies. Sound fades. There’s nothing but silence, and as I blink in shock, I see a gush of blue flames ripple over me.
And then the flames die down and the dragon lumbers toward me.
Blessed Maia. I lower my arms, smelling the stink of scorched leather from where my boot soles didn’t quite fare as well. I mustn’t have shielded completely.
But my sister strikes her hand against the supporting columns that shield the roof, and cracks run through the stone as she unleashes her own magic.
The dragon freezes, looking up.
And the entire ceiling collapses upon it.
Eris appears out of the rubble, sprinting up its spine and grasping her massive sword in both hands. She leaps over falling stones, warding a vicious rock away from her as she lands on the dragon’s skull.
“Die!” She drives her sword through its skull.
The wight screams, and the blue lights in its eyes flare hot for a second before its body starts collapsing.
“This way!” I gesture for her to follow me, even as the soles of my boots still steam.
Vines crawl through the nearest doorway, thick with bristling thorns. There are too many of them to cut through.
Grimm streaks beneath them, leaving me to follow. “It’s in here!”
I slice through the closest briars, finding myself in a circular chamber. Eris staggers into me, but she’s spitting curses because her sword lodged in the dragon’s skull. I toss her mine.
Thirteen enormous stones line the walls. The dusty floor is cut with bronze glyphs that wink in the faelight I summon.
The Hallow.
“Vi?” Andraste pants at my side, blood dripping from a cut on her temples. “What are you doing?” She stills as she sees the state of the glyphs. Some of them have been defaced, and there’s a skeleton resting with its back against the nearest wall.
At least one of the adventurers who came exploring has been accounted for.
“I can use the Hallow,” I tell her.
She backs away, shaking her head. “No. This is forbidden. If the glyphs are shattered—"
“She can use it,” Eris says with a snort. “Are you coming, bitchspawn?”
Andraste stares at me for a long moment. “No.”
“You’re not safe here!” I argue.
There’s a horrible look in her eyes. “You called it the Crown of Shadows. But whatever that thing in your bag is, it’s not the real crown.”
The breath slams from my lungs. “How would you know that?”
Her gaze meets mine. “Because the Crown of Shadows sits on Mother’s head.”
Everything goes silent, leaving only a ringing in my ears. “No.” The Asturian royal crown is an elegant gold piece I’ve seen a thousand times. I’ve even touched it once, though Mother slammed the door of her dressing chambers open and demanded to know what I thought I was doing.
It didn’t feel like it had any sort of power.
“It is,” Andraste insists. “She told me that if anything ever happened to us—if your husband ever attacked the castle—then I needed to get the crown out safely. I needed to bring it to her, no matter what I had to do.”
This must have been what she wanted to tell me in secret.
And what was it the oracle said?
That I would understand everything…. Not that I would have the crown in my possession.
Suddenly shouts echo through the halls. My mother’s warriors. Andraste’s attention jerks upward, and then she backs away. “Go. I’ll cover you. I’ll tell them it was me. That I set this entire affair off.”
“What about Mother?” I ask sharply.
The expression melts off Andraste’s face. “I’ve been lying to her for years. What’s another lie? I’ll tell her I was meeting a male for a secret assignation.”
My eyebrows rise. “You’ve been lying to her for years? You?”
She hesitates and
then tips her chin up. “We all have secrets, Vi.”
“We never used to have secrets.”
Andraste gives me a sad little smile. “Sometimes it’s the only way to protect those we love. I hope one day you’ll understand that.”
What does that mean?
“Down here!” Someone yells.
“We need to go,” Eris says, grabbing my hand.
“Come on, come on, come on.” I slice my hand with the dagger, searching the columns for runes I might recognize.
Is this even going to work?
There. I see Valerian’s glyph and dart toward it, before skidding to a halt. The rune is half-crumbled.
“Be ready,” I yell at Eris. “This might be a rough ride.”
And then the world turns inside out and plunges me straight into darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The plan is reckless. It’s dangerous. It relies upon the fact that I can trust my sister to keep her mouth shut about our need for the crown, when the past has proven such trust to be worth so little.
It’s barely been two days since the revelation at Briar Keep, and it’s taken me every second of those two days to convince Thiago to risk this stealthy assault. Especially after he found nothing at Clydain except for an empty keep.
Eris, surprisingly, was the one who convinced him.
“I don’t think the Princess of Asturia was lying,” she told him last night. “I don’t think she’s telling the entire truth, but Andraste had multiple chances to turn Vi over to their mother and she didn’t take it.”
“If you were going to gamble my wife’s life on such a statement,” he said coldly, “would you throw the die?”
Eris hesitated, but she finally nodded. “Yes.”
And Thiago closed his eyes and surrendered, though this time, he’s not going to allow me to risk this without him.
The eve of Imbolc dawns.
And with it my mother’s spring celebrations, in which the entire aristocracy of Asturia will be invited into Hawthorne castle to celebrate. It’s our best chance to get close to the crown.
It’s our only chance.
Finn and I slip into Asturia by way of the Briar Keep Hallow and make our way toward Hawthorne castle. We hitch a ride with a drayman carting wine, and the slow pace makes my skin itch, even though I know it’s for the best.
Imbolc is one of Asturia’s most widely celebrated holidays—when summer slays winter. Every town and village we pass is setting up poles on their village greens, but the castle is where the grand celebrations will be held.
“Ready?” Finn murmurs as the drayman turns his mules toward the castle.
We call farewell as dusk starts to fall and slip from the cart before turning into the woods. Once there, I strip out of my woolen peasant gown and haul on the silk dress I had tucked in a bag hidden under my skirts.
The dress is the color of a bitten plum, though it lightens through the skirts until the very hem is almost silver. A feathered mask covers my face, and Thalia found an auburn wig for my hair. Every inch of me is bedecked for a festival, though my leather boots reach midthigh and there are two daggers sheathed in them.
I feel ready to face my mother for the first time in my life. Not as a beggar or a child desperate for her attention, but as a survivor. As someone who has something to protect. She won’t take my love away from me, not this time.
And she won’t ever get her hands on the child I’m sure is within me.
Minstrels stroll through the forests, plucking chords on their lutes as they tune them. A pair of winged demi-fey hang feathers in the trees, wearing miniature versions of red and gold livery. The air of excitement hangs in the air.
Imbolc was always my favorite holiday.
“Are you in?” Thiago murmurs, his thoughts sliding over mine like a gloved hand shielded in cool leather. He and Eris hide within the woods several miles north. Close enough for them to rescue us if anything goes awry, but not too close for someone to feel the resonance of their fae magic.
Finn’s magic is strange enough that he doesn’t feel like fae, and my connection to Evernight vanished the second we arrived at the Hallow. While some of my mother’s guards might scan the resonance of their guest’s magic, I was counting on the fact that I’ll only rate as someone of middling talent.
“Nobody’s questioned us,” I reply, tucking my arm through Finn’s elbow. “The guards scanned us from a distance, but whatever part of me was born in this court must have felt familiar enough that no alarms were sounded.”
Finn takes my hand. “Are you ready, my love?”
His eyes twinkle, and I know he’s merely teasing me—just as I know Thiago can hear every word he utters through our mental link.
“I’m going to kill him,” whispers a dark voice in my head.
“Stop being so territorial,” I whisper back. “And get out of my head. I need to concentrate.”
The fae of my mother’s court already dance beneath the trees of the royal hunting preserve. Music hums through the air; the harps my mother favors spilling soft sounds even as bards sing of cruel hearts and poisonous kisses.
“This way,” I tell Finn, pushing him into the shadows of the trees. “If my mother follows her usual routine, she’ll be by the lake. We’ll skirt the banquet tables and enter the castle from the queen’s wood while she’s distracted with bringing in Imbolc.”
I know the ritual.
Imbolc brings the start of the lambing season and stands between the summer and winter solstices. Bonfires are lit throughout the forest, and all the guests wear masks and heavy cloaks.
One of the fae guests will be crowned the Prince of Winter, and another will be crowned the Prince of Summer—forced to duel to represent the clash between seasons. Summer will win, of course, and then the Queen of Summer will be crowned by my mother—though of course the crown she is gifted with is the Crown of Summer, and not the Asturian royal crown.
No, that will be locked away in the castle, which means this is our best time to strike.
The castle will be lightly guarded. My mother will be distracted by the festivities, and I know her well enough to know that the smile she grants the new Summer Queen will be tight and jealous. She won’t let the night’s queen out of her sight, because my mother prefers all attention to be upon her.
It’s a temporary honor, of course, though the Summer Queen will bless all of those who have married between seasons and kiss the foreheads of numerous babies.
And then the wine will be brought out.
Come midnight, everyone will sling off their cloaks, revealing gossamer gowns and tunics beneath, and the hedonistic part of the night will truly start.
This is our best chance.
The enormous oaks that guard the royal hunting preserve have been here for centuries. The Queen oak thrives in the heart of the forest, and some say it was planted by my mother herself when she bound herself to the land and took her naming rights as queen. Fae lanterns hang through the trees, illuminating everything in a soft glowing light.
It’s beautiful.
I spent so much time in these woods as a child, playing hide and seek with Andraste. We used to carve little notes to each other in our secret language in the bark of the trees—a map of sorts to the heart of the queen’s forest, where there’s a little cavern we claimed for the two of us.
And then my mother found the carvings and banned us from the woods, furious that we’d desecrated sacred trees.
“Is everything all right?” Finn asks, clearly picking up on my mood.
“Old memories.” I laugh a little at the irony. “They weren’t all bad.”
And maybe that’s the hardest truth to swallow, because all the good memories I have belong to those moments I shared with my sister when we were both children. Young. Carefree. Foolish.
I can trust her, can’t I?
Finn’s gaze slides over the gathering. “Looks a little solemn for my tastes.”
“That’s because
nobody’s naked. Yet.”
“Yet?” The corners of his lips kick up. “Do tell.”
“We’re not going to remain behind to see,” I warn him. “One hour to get in and out. Don’t get distracted.”
“What could distract me?” His head turns as a lady in bright red shoots him a knowing wink.
“You’re right. Eris is not here.”
Finn shoots me a look somewhat akin to that of a deer catching the hunter’s scent on the breeze. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
The mask shields his face, but his glare practically incinerates me.
“Ladies!” someone calls with a laugh. “And lords. And all who dwell in between. Let us bring in the summer. Let us sing to the sun and beg her for a good harvest!”
Every inch of me stills.
Mother.
I’d expected her to be holding court near the barrow mounds, where an enormous fae-made pool of water reflects the moon. It’s her favorite place, deep in the heart of the queen’s wood.
This is a disaster.
Though, if she captures me, at least I won’t have to worry about the Mother of Night twisting me to her purpose or Angharad cutting the heart from my chest.
“Small wins,” I whisper to myself.
“Pardon?” Finn mutters.
“Nothing.”
“Let us bring in the summer!” a dozen other voices chorus.
The crowd parts even as my ribs constrict. And then a tall, elegant woman sweeps out of the shadows.
Gold feathers adorn her cloak, hiding all but the hem of her gown, and a ruff of them guard her throat. A crown nestles in her braided hair like hungry gold teeth stabbing into the sky. Someone’s dusted ground gold along her cheekbones and painted her lips with it, though her eyes are shadowed with kohl.
I see every touch her brownie valet, Thistledown, has tried to make to present her as something she’s not….
Queen of Summer.
A kind, benevolent monarch.
The power that brings this court into the season of growing.
Warm. Golden. A sun that shines so brightly, it obliterates all others.
And yet, somehow the effect fails. Gold has never looked so cold and merciless. Smiles slip as she passes by, though the clapping remains loud and emphatic.
