by Alex Lidell
I snort, swatting his hand away. “Right. Well, before we discover all that—how long are you going to let the humans out there blunder about before going to talk some sense into them? I’m no expert, but handing Owalin everything he wants does not appear to be a winning strategy.”
River squeezes my shoulder, shaking his head at the window. “Fair point. Let me get my coat.”
10
Lera
“What do you mean they have no interest in working with us?” Tye asks River five minutes later. The rain that started with sudden violence earlier is finally pattering off to a slow drizzle, the droplets snaking down the glass like tears. “Have the human royals lost what little wits they had to begin with?”
Taking off his jacket, River hangs it on the back of the chair by the fire to dry and runs a hand through his short dark hair. From what I saw through the window, the male was barely allowed to enter the humans’ command tent, much less listened to.
“They fear getting caught between two warring immortal armies.” River drops into a chair, tapping his finger on the wood. “The Fothom king kept pointing out that Owalin is creating enough problems without anyone wanting to worry about our hidden intentions.”
“Such as our intention to protect their arses?” Tye says. “Aye, I’m starting to find that suspicious as well.”
“So what’s their plan exactly?” Coal’s voice is dark. “Give in to Owalin’s demands like good little lapdogs and hope he gives them proper scraps going forward?”
“He has their loved ones trapped,” says River, pausing to look out the window, where the Fothom king’s line of attendants and clerks files slowly into the Great Hall, the latter carrying oiled satchels filled with paper and ink needed to draw up the agreements that will cede all the thrones to the Night Guard. Behind the clerks, several servants are ready with trays of food. The Fothom king himself, a blurred form through the drizzle, prepares to follow. River shakes his head. ”They’ve bought themselves some leeway, but it’s only a matter of time before the final five kings follow suit.”
“Fine.” Coal crosses muscular arms over his chest, his blue eyes flashing. “If the humans won’t help themselves, we’ll do it for them. Make entry after dark, take out the leadership cadre. With Owalin gone, the rest of the beasts will be easier to slay.”
River shakes his head. “There are two dozen fae and who knows how many human supporters in the Night Guard. The five of us can’t take that on without resorting to significant magic—and a battle like that is likely to bring the whole keep down. It doesn’t count as a victory if we kill all the hostages.”
“Isn’t the Night Guard under the same constraint?” I ask. “Killing a hostage here and there is one thing, but if they explode the whole keep, they have no leverage anymore.”
“Exactly right.” River nods. “Magic isn’t the answer since such combat would lead to mutual destruction. And when it comes to melee, the Night Guard has too many people for us to face down alone.”
My hand tightens on the table’s edge, the males’ conversation suddenly taking on layers I hadn’t noticed earlier. Magic isn’t the answer. My heart quickens, the fledgling strands of realization injecting energy into muscle. I only realize I’ve spoken aloud when the males turn their gazes to me in question.
“Magic isn’t the answer,” I say again, already headed for the door, my skin tingling in anticipation of the chill wind and rain. Of what I’m about to do. “Being human is the answer. Which means it isn’t River they need to be talking to.”
“Did anyone understand what the lass said?” Tye murmurs to the others as I step out into the courtyard, lifting my face toward the command tent.
At once, I feel the wind blowing my hair free of my neck and whipping the strands while the last vestiges of rain cling to my cheeks. I walk stridently across the cobblestones, not slowing long enough to question the sanity of what I’m doing. Behind me, the soft tapping of feet betrays the males’ presence behind me, as does the sudden hush of the crowd. Glares ranging from hate to fear to awe track my every movement as I survey the ground outside the tent in search of something to stand on. Finding nothing better than a charred bench that was once part of the proud arena bleachers, I set it upright before climbing on top.
“You were told to get the hell out.” A man’s voice hits me in the chest before I fully find my footing. Stepping out from under the command tent, the Fothom king points a sword at me. Once tall and broad-shouldered, his pale blond hair still thick under his gold-and-sapphire crown, his proud form has seemed to age twenty years from grief. “You are not welcome here. None of you.”
Heart pounding, I raise a halting hand to my males, who are already reaching for weapons. The extra couple of feet of height the bench gives me are enough to make me seen, though the platform is hardly dignified. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, my heart quickening. Speeches are River’s specialty, not mine. But this crowd doesn’t need River.
“Put down your blade, Your Majesty,” I tell the king, wrinkling my nose at the ornate sword in his hands. “It makes you look like a rabbit with claws, when we all know you have none.”
“How dare—” The Fothom king takes a step forward before two men rush to grab his shoulders, holding him back with desperate murmurs about not provoking the immortals.
“You should listen to them,” I tell the king, my words carrying over the courtyard and softly pattering rain. “After all, rabbits who get between two hungry wolves are only choosing which stomach they will end up in. Better to tuck your tail and go hide beneath the largest rock you can find while the immortals do as they please. There truly is nothing left for you anymore than to wait and mourn your dead—both present and future.”
The king’s face darkens, an angry murmur starting among the remaining crowd. A few steps behind me, Tye and Coal debate my sanity, neither’s opinion overly flattering.
River takes a step toward me. I shake my head, and he retreats, his arms crossed over his wide chest. Grim but silent. Turning my attention back to the courtyard, I swallow, keeping my chin up as I let the crowd’s newly roused fury stretch itself awake. As I drink it in.
Because anger is better than fear. Better than apathy.
“What? Don’t you like what I say?” I demand, marking for the first time the one face that is listening to me with rapt attention—Princess Katita’s. I let myself hold her cool turquoise gaze a moment as I continue. “I’m only giving voice to the murmurs I’m hearing,” I say. “This isn’t my tale. It is yours.”
“Spoken like a true immortal on a pedestal,” a voice yells, the crowd parting to a woman with puffy eyes, sagging red braids, and a skewed crown. The queen of Fothom, who lost her son this afternoon, whose husband is readying to surrender himself to the Night Guard for the sake of his remaining children. “It isn’t your world that’s shattered. Don’t you dare judge what you’ve never experienced. You think you know what our lives are like because you feigned being a human student for a few months? You think you understand anything? Your people brought disaster on our heads, so don’t you lecture us on how to take a beating with more grace.”
A lump forms in my throat at the wild grief on the woman’s face, my hand going to my midsection. I’ve only heard my pups’ heartbeats, and I already cannot imagine watching someone hurt them—that this queen stands tall after the grief she faced, that she looks an immortal in the eye and holds her ground, is what makes humans as powerful as any fae.
“You are quite right, Your Majesty,” I say, and mean it.
The queen, whose mouth is already open with a new insult, cocks her head.
“You deserve to make your own choices and be respected for them. You also deserve to know the truth—of who I am, of why we came here to begin with. I ask that you let me tell you, and then you make the decision that is right for your people. Better yet, don’t listen to me. Listen to one of your own.”
Looking over the crowd—now a thinned-out mixture of Academy ca
dets, Prowess athletes, staff, and those royal visitors hardy or panicked enough to remain outside—I lock eyes with the blacksmith who was ready to swing a mallet at my head earlier today. “Master Thad. There is a prisoner named Jake in the Academy’s dungeons. He is the same Master Zake who has been leading the inquisition to rid the mortal world of fae. Would you bring him here and ask him about me? Ask him who I am and who I was.”
Thad spits on the ground. “If you think I’ll do your bidding—”
“I think you’ll do my bidding.” Katita’s regal voice is smooth and polished beside mine. With her dress torn and wet, she limps as she strides from the command tent, passing by the Fothom royals as if the pair isn’t even there. Coming up to my makeshift pedestal, Katita ignores my offer of a hand up as she climbs —though taking the step is plainly a painful endeavor.
“I am the crown princess of Ckridel,” Katita announces to the crowd. “With my father kept captive, I am charged with the throne. And I will have no fae or blacksmith deny me the truth. Bring the prisoner and let him speak.”
Turning to Katita, I search for something to say but find the young woman’s gaze so filled with steel that no words come.
“My duty is to my people, not my pride,” Katita says with no warmth at all, turning away.
The minutes tick by in a gut-churning wait that makes me question the wisdom of my plan more with each passing heartbeat.
By the time Thad and several guards escort Zake to the podium, I’m ready to empty my stomach into the nearest hedge and have to swallow several times just to keep my stance. When I force my spine to straighten, I find Katita watching me with a curious gaze. I almost don’t recognize her without the usual scorn twisting her stunning features. Owalin’s threat to her kingdom has revealed her true colors—crises have a way of doing that.
“You are afraid of him?” she asks quietly enough to keep the wind from picking up her words. “This human. Why?”
“Filthy lying wench!” Zake’s words pierce the crowd from where he walks, saving me from having to answer Katita’s question. “I knew the moment of truth would come. And now it has, with the whole world seeing you for the creature you are.”
The princess lifts her chin, pointing to a spot on the ground right below her. “You seem to know quite a bit about this fae. If you have noble blood in you as you claim, I expect you to indulge us with an explanation that is appropriate for my ears.”
Zake flinches at the command in Katita’s tone, his bruised body straightening before the princess. When he speaks again, his tone is as civil as I’ve ever heard it.
“Of course, Your Highness. I forgot myself a moment.” Zake tugs down the hem of his shirt, still the plain brown servant’s uniform he was wearing when jailed. A thin layer of scruff now covers his face, matching the dark, wiry hair on his head. “Many years ago, I let an orphan girl into my home. Gave the wretched child a bed and bowl. Taught her a trade. Taught her discipline and honesty. Or so I thought.” Zake shakes his head, the disappointment hanging around him like a heavy cloak. “At the first opportunity, the wench traded her maidenhead for corruption. More than that, she took everything I’d worked for decades to create and bargained it away to the fae in exchange for being made one of them. That orphan turned backstabbing thief now stands beside you, Your Highness. And I swear on my life that, given a chance, she will take what’s yours just as she took what’s mine.”
My hands clench at my side, even River’s steady gray gaze unable to save me from the sting of each of Zake’s lies.
Katita’s eyes narrow at the man. “Do you mean to say that Leralynn was once human? A serving girl in your stable and under your authority?”
“That is exactly what I’m saying.” Zake raises his chin in triumph as a murmur goes through the crowd. Many sets of eyes turn to me, filled with questions, before widening as they find Katita’s disgusted gaze.
“Keep that filth silent,” Katita orders the guards, staring down Zake as he begins sputtering. Turning to me, the princess schools her face, though the curiosity dancing in her eyes is plain to see. “Might I presume that the price of immortality was slightly higher than a maidenhead?” she asks of me.
“The price was death.” I try and fail to force a smile. “I don’t recommend it.”
A humorless chuckle touches the princess’s face. “So you were one of us. And now you are back. Why?”
The crowd’s attention swings to me, the murmuring quieting. Waiting for my answer. In the corner of my vision, I catch River raising a brow at me. I’ve gotten the platform and audience I fought for, his gaze says. Now what? What speech have I prepared to give them?
Except, unlike River, I have no speech to give. All I have is the truth.
I draw a deep breath, letting the air fill my chest. “Because I made a mistake. We all did. Ages ago, our ancestors set up wards to ensure that no magic enters the mortal world. A few months ago, the Elders Council in Lunos received reports that those wards were cracking and dispatched my quint—under cover of a magic veil—to correct the problem. We came to secretly protect you from us, with no intention of ever telling you the truth. But that was folly.”
“Because mortals don’t deserve your protection?” The sarcasm in Katita’s voice drips like honey.
“Because mortals can protect themselves,” I say, twisting toward her, the rest of the courtyard suddenly dissolving into irrelevance. In the back of my mind, I wonder what Owalin is making of all this—if he is bothering to listen to the chattering of lower life-forms, that is. But it doesn’t matter. The truth is the truth no matter how blind the bastard is to it. “We can be your allies, Katita—we can’t be your puppet masters. The truth is that, for all the faes’ magic and immortality, the human world is so much larger than the three kingdoms of Lunos that a battle would wipe everyone out evenly.”
I look at the door to the Great Hall, looming behind the crowd and a wall of brave human guards. The place my quint cannot assault without destroying it, not by ourselves. With the rain having finally died down to a light mist, torches and lanterns have flickered on all around the courtyard, casting dramatic shadows on the towering stone. The clouds are beginning to clear, revealing a silver-blue sky, just tingeing orange on the edges.
Turning my attention back to the courtyard, I continue. “On our way here, my quint and I wore amulets to trick your mind into believing us humans. But then I accidentally tripped a bit of stray magic, which made the males believe the veil’s lies for a long time. I thought it was all my fault for being careless. For tripping that magic. But that wasn’t the real problem—the real problem started when we donned the amulets to begin with. When we decided to take the choice away from you.”
I pause, suddenly realizing that the courtyard has gone silent, the words spilling from my soul filling the air with an intoxicating tension. For a second, all I can do is blink as I remember where I am. Who I’m talking to.
Katita nods at me, the tiny motion like a new jolt of strength circling my core.
“There are fae inside the Great Hall who hold your loved ones hostage,” I tell the crowd. “We didn’t bring them here. They came well before us. And we aren’t going to storm your fortress, fighting a battle you do not want fought. These are your kingdoms, your lands, your choices. Just as our realms could never battle without wiping both our peoples to dust, my quint cannot battle the Night Guard without killing everyone in the Great Hall. There would be no victory for either side. This standoff will end not with magic, but with your steel. Or your surrender. The choice is yours alone.”
Reaching to my back, I draw the blade I have sheathed there, the steel whispering as it’s freed into the cool air. The collective breath of the crowd stills as I raise the blade above my head, letting the first rays of sunlight after the storm reflect off the shaft. “My mates and I are here to help, should you wish it. But make no mistake, the true power is with you. As is your victory.” Turning the weapon, I hand it hilt first to Katita. “The
fae of Lunos are in your kingdom at your sufferance, Your Highness. And we await your orders.”
11
Owalin
“What in the bloody stars’ name is that?” Owalin asked, staring out the bay window where a dark, swirling wall of something was forming up before his very eyes.
Behind him, the two hundred hostages has been subdued into proper order, the kings’ clerks drawing up contracts along the tables set up against the back wall. His people had arranged food on the right side of the hall, where the families of the lesser nobles who’d signed an allegiance pledge to the Night Guard were allowed to go while the others watched hungrily. The five monarchs were still thinking things over, but it was only a matter of time. While River’s wench was busy making speeches to hamsters, the Fothom king and the clerks had slunk away just as the bell tolled the deadline, the whole lot of them red-faced and shaking as they beheld the prince whose throat was a second away from being sliced open.
Owalin was a male of his word, after all—and the hamsters needed to know that with every fiber of their being. After all, Owalin required more than kings’ signatures—he required their submission. The mortal world was too large for the Night Guard to hold under constant sword, and cultivating the right proxies required a proper mix of stick and carrot. It also required setting firm rules and sticking to them for as long as it took the feeble-minded creatures to learn better than to doubt Owalin’s decrees. Breaking a good workhorse to bit took time.
Time that Owalin was supposed to have had plenty of. “Krum,” he snapped at the silver-haired wardsmith. “I asked what that was.”
“A privacy screen.” Coming up behind him, Krum rolled the two spheres he always had in his hand, his face set in a contempt-filled expression. “It’s supposed to keep us from seeing and hearing all the plans the king of Slait and his ilk are making out there.”
