To Carve a Fae Heart (The Fair Isle Trilogy Book 1)

by Tessonja Odette

  I shoot him a glare. “Silly? You think we’re silly? Was it silly for the Holstrom girls to be executed?”

  He lets out a trill of laughter. “Oh, that. Yes, I can see why that would frighten you. But you need not worry. That is, unless you’re plotting treason. You don’t seem the type though.”

  “Did Theresa and Maryanne seem the type?”

  His brows furrow. “Now that I think about it, no, they didn’t. Hmm.” His smile returns as if we haven’t been speaking about death and treason at all.

  But I’m not done with the subject. “Why did they die?”

  He shrugs. “We already told the human council. They performed an act of treason.”

  “Cut the lies,” I say. “What’s the real reason? What exactly did they do to earn a death sentence?”

  “First off, fae can’t lie. Second, that is a classified matter. If you’d like to ask the king when you meet him, perhaps he’ll tell you. For now, just know their crime was grave indeed.”

  I roll my eyes. “Is that the same excuse you gave for poor Hank Osterman? I’m sure you were sent to tidy up that mess as well. Or did they send the ambassador in the black cloak instead?”

  “Ambassador in a black cloak? Hank Osterman? I assure you, I know neither of these people. Care to enlighten me?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m sure you know about Mr. Osterman. He lost his arm because of one of you. A fae tricked him into sticking his hand in a bear trap. What clever words were used to excuse that act?”

  The ambassador pulls his head back in surprise. “You mean the Butcher of Stone Ninety-Four?”

  “The what?”

  “The Butcher of Stone Ninety-Four,” the ambassador says, like it’s supposed to be obvious. “That man is a menace. He comes hunting near the wall and enters Faerwyvae between stone ninety-four and stone ninety-five on the Spring axis. He enters only as far as he can get away with and leaves traps, hoping to catch the kind of fae he can sell for parts. Is that the man you speak of?”

  “No, of course not! Hank Osterman would never—”

  “He was injured just yesterday, right? Caught in his own bear trap? Fae trap, more like.”

  I hesitate. Mr. Osterman hadn’t said if it was his own trap or not, but it’s possible. “Yes, and one of your lesser fae—”

  He hisses a sharp intake of breath. “Ah, we don’t use that term. That’s a human convention. Lesser fae and high fae are labels we in Faerwyvae take offense to. We prefer unseelie and seelie.”

  I glower. “One of your whatever fae tricked him into mangling his hand. He had to have his entire lower arm amputated.”

  The ambassador cackles. “Oh, Lorelei. What a scamp.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. “A scamp. That’s what you call a creature that tricks a man into losing his arm?”

  “It’s not like he didn’t have it coming. She isn’t the first fae the Butcher of Stone Ninety-Four has terrorized. He caught Lorelei’s lover too. Probably sold her wings to a merchant and dumped her body in a ditch. Don’t even get me started on the unicorns. I don’t know how much longer I would have been able to cover for his treachery. Lorelei’s little stunt likely saved us from war.”

  I’m at a loss for words. The ambassador must be mistaken. The fae may be adamant that they can’t lie, but I’m sure it has more to do with cultural custom than physical ability. Besides, even if he were incapable of lying, it wouldn’t mean he’s telling the truth. He must not know the truth. Because the Hank Osterman I know would never hunt unicorns or kill fae. Would he?

  “The lesson is, don’t set traps and you’ll be fine,” the ambassador says.

  “A simple matter then.”

  “Exactly!” he says with an approving nod.

  I frown. Another stretch of silence falls over the carriage until a new question comes to mind. “Which are you? Seelie or unseelie?”

  “Obviously, I’m seelie. I’m dressed in regal clothes and riding in a carriage, aren’t I?”

  “Is that all the difference amounts to?”

  “Do you know nothing of Faerwyvae? Are you not taught our ways growing up, like we are taught about yours?”

  We are, but I don’t say so out loud. For the things we are taught about the fae are hardly flattering.

  He huffs. “I’m an ambassador, not a nursery maid. Regardless, I’ll educate you. All fae once were unseelie, which you so callously deem lesser fae. Back when the isle was ours alone and no human had set foot here, we were different. We were…creatures, you might say. Spirits. Animals. We were so alive back then.” His voice sounds wistful. “Or so I’m told, at least. I’m hardly old enough to have been born that long ago. In any case, we didn’t start to change until your kind came to the isle.”

  I find myself leaning forward, genuinely curious to hear what he has to say. I’ve been told about the war between the humans and fae, the repercussions, the treaty, but never anything about what the Fair Isle was like before.

  He continues. “We were curious about these newcomers, and they were equally curious about us. There were mishaps and misunderstandings, of course, but for the most part, we were friendly with the humans. Then the humans started leaving us gifts, sharing their food. You taught us words, made us clothes. That’s when we began to change.”

  “How did you change?”

  “We began to feel like you, look like you, hurt like you. It was a curse. And a blessing. We experienced things we never had before. Love. Hate. Rage. Passion. Sorrow. Some of us welcomed these changes, exploring the vast array of new experiences. The others retreated from human settlements, vowing never to eat human food or wear human clothes again. That was the beginning of the divide between seelie and unseelie. The unseelie considered seelie fae unnatural, an abomination of what we were meant to be. They wanted the isle back, for the humans to be eradicated. The seelie, meanwhile, weren’t willing to give their new identities away and wanted to protect their friends, the humans. And…well, you know the rest.”

  I’m not sure I do, but I can’t find the words to admit it.

  “Which one is my husband?” Amelie’s voice startles me. It’s the first time she’s spoken since we left home. “Seelie or Unseelie?”

  “Well, at present both King Aspen and Prince Cobalt are politically seelie,” the ambassador says. “However, King Aspen tends to shift unseelie from time to time, both physically and politically. He has a temper, you know.”

  Amelie blanches, her hand clutching her rowan berries. “Which am I to marry?”

  “That depends. Marriages from previous Reapings were made according to age. By the way, not all got to marry kings and princes, you know. You’re lucky. The last Reaping from a hundred years ago paired the girls with minor cousins of the Summer Court Queen. Now, which of you is Evelyn Fairfield?”

  “I am.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Evelyn Fairfield,” he says with a bow of his dark head. “My name is Foxglove. Forgive me for not introducing myself until now. I wanted to make sure the two of you had a good and proper sulk. Young human females seem fond of doing such. I take it you are the eldest?”

  Amelie springs forward in her seat, an appalled look on her face. “Evie? Eldest! That’s absurd.”

  I pat her knee and say to Foxglove, “Amelie is eldest.”

  Amelie leans back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. “Why would you assume me to be the younger?”

  Foxglove scratches the side of his head, then adjusts his spectacles. “I’m not sure. I do suppose you are taller, now that you are sitting upright and no longer have the tears of a small child in your eyes.”

  Amelie’s mouth falls open. “Tears of a child? How rude! And another thing. Never mind how tall I am. Even if I wasn’t taller, I’d still be older. Height is hardly an indication.”

  I suppress a grin. It’s nice to see Amelie acting like herself again.

  “I was certain height was an indication of human age, but I was obviously mistaken,” Foxglove says.
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  “Does your kind keep growing forever, then?” I ask, imagining monstrous, mountainous fae strolling through the trees, heads above the treetops.

  “Only for several hundred years. King Aspen has reached his full height by now, I’m sure, being the thousand years that he is.”

  Amelie lets out a gasp. “A thousand years? He’s positively ancient!”

  Foxglove nods. “He was born nearly the day the war ended. The tide turned upon his birth, and I say that with some irony, as his mother is Queen of the Sea Court. She was unseelie through and through, as was her husband, King Herne of the Autumn Court. King Herne died during the war, however, leaving Melusine as regent. Somehow, against all odds, King Aspen was born in seelie form, taking his deceased father’s place as heir to the Autumn Court. This, in turn, changed his mother’s heart and brought the majority vote to side with the seelie. The Council of Eleven Courts forged peace with the humans through the treaty.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Amelie says with a pout. “Who are we each to marry?”

  “As the eldest, you will marry King Aspen while Evelyn will marry his younger brother, Prince Cobalt.”

  Amelie’s eyes go wide. “I have to marry the Stag King?”

  “You do!” Foxglove says. “You’re so lucky. The Stag King is quite yummy to look at. Plus, he has a huge…kingdom, as rumor would have it.” He waggles his brows, his grin wide enough to show his slightly pointed teeth.

  Fangs. I knew it—wait. Did he just make an innuendo? “Huge kingdom?”

  He winks. “So I’ve heard. Prince Cobalt, on the other hand, has remained much more of a mystery. If he’s taken many lovers, neither he nor they brag about it. Quite a shame. You’ll have to let me know about his…kingdom yourself.”

  A blush of heat rises to my cheeks. I most certainly will not be reporting anything about Prince Cobalt’s kingdom, for I plan on never laying eyes on it. I give a subtle pat to my dagger, taking comfort that it remains a presence at my side, then avert my gaze to the window, watching golden leaves fall.

  Chapter Eight

  The journey through Autumn isn’t easy, neither on my body nor my mind. Every muscle aches, both from sitting so long and from tensing due to nerves. Amelie and I were allowed two short breaks during our travels, and these were only to relieve our humanly urges, something I never care to relive again. Nothing could be more frightening than trying to squat behind a tree in the forest of the fae. I could swear every leaf, vine, and branch had eyes, watching me, mocking me. My only hope now is that our new home has a proper toilet.

  Then again, whenever I think of our new home, my mind becomes frazzled, my muscles tense yet again, and I feel like my lungs will collapse in my chest. What awaits us at the end of this carriage ride?

  Warm light of the setting sun blazes through the window of the carriage, bathing the inside in a red-orange glow. I lean forward, looking out the window. It seems the trees have cleared, and we are no longer in the dense forest. The sky is every shade of gold, pink, and orange, but the quality of color is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It glimmers and glows, enhanced by the red leaves of the trees covering the distant hillsides.

  I lean back and Foxglove takes my place at the window. “Ah, we’re almost to the palace,” he says.

  My heart begins to race. As much as I want the ride to be over, I’m not ready to enter the home of the king and my husband-to-be. The thought alone churns my stomach, making bile rise in my throat.

  A moment later, the carriage begins to slow, and I feel the weight shift, as if we’re making an ascent. Amelie grips my hand, chest heaving as she clutches her necklace. Her fingers tremble within mine. Or are mine the ones trembling? With a deep breath, I close my eyes, steadying my nerves and smothering my panic in a blanket of calm. The calm of a surgeon.

  The carriage stops. “We’re here,” Foxglove says.

  I force myself to open my eyes. Breathe. Hold yourself together.

  Foxglove pushes open the carriage door and exits. Amelie’s grip grows tighter, and neither of us makes any move to leave our seats. After a few moments, Foxglove peers back inside. “Come on. Did you not hear? You’re home!”

  Another deep breath. My free hand pats my dagger. As if moving through water, I slowly leave the seat and make my way to the door. Amelie trails behind me, her fingers laced in mine. Foxglove offers me his hand as I step from the carriage to the marble path beneath it. More light from the setting sun greets me outside, overwhelming my senses.

  Foxglove extends his free hand, indicating the other side of the carriage. “Welcome to Bircharbor Palace.”

  I step away from the carriage and turn until massive golden spires come into view. My breath catches in my throat, and for one blessed moment, I forget my anxiety. The palace is more beautiful than any structure I’ve ever seen, with walls of red-orange carnelian, yellow citrine, and golden-brown tiger’s eye. There’s nothing behind the palace but blushing sky, no forest, tree, or shrub. It’s as if the palace stands at the end of the world. A cool breeze brushes my face, slightly warmer than the autumn weather back home, and I catch the hint of salt on the air.

  I’m nearly swept beneath the weight of my awe, but I dampen it, reminding myself this is not a beautiful palace but a prison. A place of death. I’m not standing before an architectural miracle but at the maw of a vicious beast.

  I steal a glance at Amelie, who seems to be struck with the wonder I felt a moment ago. Her head tilts to the side as she studies the palace. The look on her face is the same she gets when considering a new gown.

  “Come,” Foxglove says and rounds the carriage.

  We follow, but I freeze when we reach the horse-creatures that had been pulling the carriage. This is my first opportunity to see them up close and beneath proper light since our travels began. Last night, I had only the impression of something beastly and strange, but the sight before me is more chilling than I’d imagined.

  The creatures have sleek, equine bodies covered in smooth black fur, and flowing manes of onyx hair. Their necks are longer and slimmer than a regular horse, curving sinuously, the legs more graceful and less jointed. Their teeth are bared, showing sharp razors of opalescent white. Their glowing yellow eyes seem to bore into us.

  Foxglove rolls his eyes impatiently when he sees we’ve stopped following him. “Puca. Harmless, really, especially when you have them under control.”

  “And…you have them under control?” Amelie asks in her quavering voice.

  Foxglove laughs. “They serve King Aspen. Puca are great for aiding transportation. Not nearly as fast as a kelpie, but let’s not speak of them.”

  It’s unnerving that he didn’t answer the question, considering he supposedly can’t lie.

  “Impressed with the puca, are we?” A feminine voice draws my attention away from the creatures to the woman approaching us. She’s petite with brown skin and olive-green eyes, her face dusted with gold on her eyelids, lips, and over her cheekbones. Her hair is in wild, black curls, tangled with tiny sticks, leaves, and branches. She wears a gauzy gown in a deep bronze. It covers less skin than a nightdress and leaves little to the imagination, despite the fact that the thin fabric reaches past her ankles.

  “Darling! It’s so good to see you.” Foxglove reaches out to her and they embrace, exchanging kisses on the cheek.

  When she pulls away, the small woman eyes Amelie and me. She lifts an eyebrow, as if uninspired by what she’s found. “Are these the girls?”

  “Yes, they are,” Foxglove says. “Meet Amelie and Evelyn Fairfield.”

  The woman puts her hands on her hips. “Hey.”

  I hesitate, waiting for her to introduce herself. “And you are?”

  “I’m to be your…what’s it called?” She looks to Foxglove. “A slave? Servant?”

  He laughs. “I think in the human world it’s called a lady’s maid, Lorelei.”

  “Yes. That.” She doesn’t look pleased.

  Her
name sparks recognition, and it takes me a moment to place it. “Wait, you’re Lorelei? The Lorelei?”

  She grins. “My reputation precedes me.”

  “For getting Hank Osterman’s arm mutilated by a bear trap.”

  She lifts her chin with pride, as if I’d complimented her. “That was me.”

  A flush deepens in my cheeks, which Foxglove seems to notice. He steps toward me, hands fluttering in the air as if they can pull the tension from it. “Lorelei is serving you as punishment for her crime against the Butcher of Stone Ninety-Four, or whatever human name you call him. See? Amends are made.”

  My eyes narrow at Lorelei, who seems to be relishing in my anger.

  “Come now, Lorelei,” Foxglove says. “You’re supposed to make them feel welcome.”

  She plasters an exaggerated smile on her lips, then says in the most honey-sweet, high-pitched voice, “Oh, by all means. Welcome.”

  Foxglove claps his hands, then turns toward the palace. “That’s better. Come along everyone.”

  I give Amelie’s fingers a reassuring squeeze as we follow Foxglove and Lorelei toward the palace. We make our way down the marble path away from the carriage, then up massive, citrine steps. The enormous double doors are open wide, and two guards outfitted in bronze armor engraved with maple leaves stand on either side, golden spears in hand. I’m surprised to find one of the guards appears female, her features slightly more feminine than her counterpart, with a long brown braid of hair plaited down her back. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a female guard in Eisleigh. Then again, I’ve hardly had the opportunity to meet any royal guards before this, considering Eisleigh’s king resides on the mainland.

  Inside the palace, I feel equally as overwhelmed as when I first saw the outside. Everything from the floor to the walls is constructed of stone in golds, reds, browns, and yellows. Golden arches and spiraling staircases steal my attention, then the smaller details like paintings, tapestries, and vases assault my senses.

  Foxglove leads us through hall after hall, stair after stair. Orb-like lights hover above sconces along the walls, some strange sort of fae lighting. Oil, perhaps? They look nothing like the oil lamps back home. I make a mental note to investigate later before I remind myself I don’t care about any of this. Returning my attention to our path ahead, I attempt to keep track of all the turns and twists. While it’s impossible to gather my bearings completely, I get the sense we’re winding deeper and higher into the palace.