by Bec McMaster
“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
“Curious choice of words.”
Afraid….
“But there will be other kisses, Princess. Goodnight.” He crosses to the double doors, bowing before stepping back through them. The faintest of smiles touches his lips. “Sweet dreams.”
And then he shuts the doors, leaving only a single key on my side, which I swiftly use to lock them.
I’m alone with the bed of sinful thoughts.
I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly certain these chambers were his. It wouldn’t surprise me to find it amuses him to have me sleep in his bed. I grab one of the pillows and sniff it, and ugh, it smells of him.
Sweet dreams, my ass.
The only way I’m going to get any sleep at all is if I keep my knife beneath my pillow.
Three months. All I have to do is survive for the next three months, and then I’m free. Of my mother’s machinations, my sister’s scheming, and whatever the Prince of Evernight intends to do to me.
7
I wake to eternal evening.
There’s a moment of disorientation as I stare at the canopy of the bed I’m lying in, and then it all comes rushing back. The Lammastide Rites. The Prince of Evernight. The deal my mother struck with him.
And now this.
Three months as the prince’s plaything—sorry, hostage.
There’s no sound coming from outside the room, though the clock on the mantle reveals I’ve slept late. The fey lanterns in the room are slowly warming, as if to provide some sense of normality in this twilight landscape.
Slipping from the bed, I find my trunk of clothes and swiftly dress in my hunting leathers. The knife Mother gave me is wrapped in my shirt, and my hand hesitates beneath its weight. The thought of serving as her assassin makes me feel sick to the stomach, but better to be armed than to be helpless, and I wasn’t allowed a sword.
I distinctly recall hearing the prince say I was free to roam as I willed, which means I’m up and out the door before anyone has a chance to stop me.
The palace is empty, though it feels as though something watches me from every shadow. I catch a rush of movement out of the corner of my eyes, which means there are demi-fey there, though whether they serve the prince is unknown. They’re wilder fae, nature spirits and ethereal sprites that dance to their own whims. Sometimes vicious, sometimes capricious, entirely unpredictable.
Valerian may be called the City of the Dead now, but it was once known as the City of Dreams, thanks to its cocooning blanket of almost ever-present twilight. Magic kept the ice and cold out, and as I slip through the palace ruins, I realize the spell that shields the city from the worst of the weather must still be in place.
Silence echoes through the hallways.
Snow lingers in drifts on the carpets, as if it crept in through crevices unknown.
There’s no sign of the servants the prince promised were here, but there’s also no sign of him, which can only be a boon.
It’s in the heart of the palace, where snow drifts lightly against the walls, that I realize the true beauty of the place. The enormous inner courtyard is no courtyard at all, but the remnants of a ballroom. Glass shards crunch beneath my boots, and as I look up, I see the broken spans of stone that hint at the remains of a roof.
The moon shines directly overhead. It must have been a glassed roof once upon a time, built to take advantage of the ever-present night skies. A silvery blue light cascades over everything, and what is left of the ballroom mirrors refracts it back until the entire snowy room seems to glow.
A single pair of wraiths waltz slowly around the ballroom, caught by the ravages of time in a never-ending loop. They litter the streets of Valerian, an ethereal reminder of the war.
Its only as they sweep past one of the stone columns that supported the roof that a small piece of paper catches my eye.
It’s tucked inside a crevice in the column, and from this angle the moonlight falls directly upon it. Something about its placement seems furtive.
I pluck it from the stone, unfurling the small scroll.
If you’re reading this, then you’re being held by the Prince of Evernight. To escape this tangled web, you must discover what happened to his wife. Trust your instincts.
I freeze.
It’s written in a style similar to my own hand. Sloped Asturian letters. Someone else from my mother’s court, perhaps? Definitely feminine, judging by the looping scroll of the letters.
But who?
Another captive?
Blessed Maia, what if this isn’t the first time the prince has arranged for a ‘political hostage’? He swore not to touch me without my consent, but who knows what he has in mind? There’s a reason he’s isolated me from the rest of his people.
One question, however, haunts me. What happened to the woman who wrote this message?
And what does she mean, by finding out what happened to his wife?
It’s the sort of thing one doesn’t mention to one’s captor, especially when I know my mother played a role in it.
I’m so engrossed in the message that I don’t hear the soft pad of footsteps until it’s too late.
“You’re up early.”
My hand clenches shut around the paper, and I spin to find the prince sauntering down the snowy stairs.
He looks even more dangerous this… morning? The fur hem of his black cloak drags across the snowy steps, and a silver and black tunic glints in the moonlight. There’s no hint of softness in that face. Only sharp edges, and the feral glint of hunger in his eyes as he surveys me.
“Was I not meant to explore?” I reply, hiding my hand behind me like I’ve been caught with my hand in the safe.
“You may do as you like—”
“Except leave.”
“You can try to leave,” he points out, “which means Asturia breaks the treaty. But I won’t stop you.”
It’s not freedom, though he makes me feel as though I have the run of the castle.
“Here,” he says, sweeping aside his cloak and revealing the sword at his hip. He tugs it free of its scabbard and hands it to me, hilt first. “I thought you might enjoy sparring with me.”
“You’re handing me something sharp?”
“It’s less dangerous than your tongue.”
I take the sword, examining its edges. It’s beautiful and perfectly weighted, with a star engraved on its crossguard. It fits my hand as if made for it. A part of me longs for action. Another part rouses competitively at the thought of fighting him. I want to beat him, even as I consider the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in those arms. He’s enormous, but every inch of him is gilded with muscle, and I’ve seen how lightly he can move. “Thank you. But I think I shall have to decline.”
I hand the sword back.
There’s no expression on his face, but I feel his frustration. “I promise I’ll go easy on you.”
“Maybe I don’t want easy?” I stride past, boots crunching on the shards of glass until I reach the center of the ballroom.
Thiago takes two steps after me, then stills. “No. You wouldn’t. You’d never choose the easy path.”
My eyes narrow. It feels like there’s something unspoken in that statement. “I want to be alone.”
“Dismissed, just like that?” His amusement holds an edge of bitterness. “As you wish, Your Highness. You may consider yourself lucky. Business calls me away for several days. Eris will remain here to protect you.”
He turns, sweeping up the stairs.
“Where are you going?” I call after him.
I don’t want to be left behind here in these lonely ruins. Even by him.
His head turns to the side, offering me his profile but no insight. “Ceres.”
“May I come?”
“No.”
My shoulders stiffen. I don’t know why he’s chosen to bring me here when the seat of his power is the golden city of Ceres. It feels as though he’s hiding me a
way from the world.
“Your loss,” I reply, kicking glass out of the way casually.
“My loss?”
“How may I repay my debt when you’re not here?”
This time he turns, those enigmatic eyes sweeping over me. “I’ll hold your kisses in lieu.”
“I consider them forfeited.”
“I don’t.”
We stare at each other, but he breaks first, a smile dawning on his lips. “Until I return, Princess. Enjoy your stay, but don’t leave the city.”
The second he’s gone, I open the small scroll of paper again.
You must discover what happened to his wife….
The less I see of the prince, the better.
Though I can’t help wondering who left this here.
And whether it was meant for me or whether I’m only the last in a long line of ‘political’ captives.
8
Avoiding the prince is easier said than done.
After all, by my own hand, I owe him a kiss once a day, and while he grants me the grace of his absence for three days, he claims his prize when he returns, leaving me in no doubt as to his intentions.
After the first night of his return, I try to gift my tithe to him in the dining room so he has no reason to enter my bedchamber. A faint brush of my lips to his and then a hasty retreat as I try to avoid the mocking glint in his eyes.
The prince knows exactly what I’m doing, but he allows it.
Which only makes me feel even more like I’m being slowly driven into a trap by the hunter.
Days turn into weeks. Then the weeks glide by. Each day feels like a storm is brewing, though he’s often absent. I know the prince wants something from me, but what?
Beyond the obvious.
I’m growing heartily sick of the ever-present twilight. The sun bares its shy face for an hour or two each day, and I spend every moment of its presence basking in its glow atop the tallest tower.
Indeed, I’m dueling with my own shadow one morning when the storm finally breaks.
There’s a clatter in the courtyard below, and the enormous iron gates lift by means of a complicated pulley system. Lowering my sword and wiping sweaty hair out of my eyes, I kneel against the stone wall of the turret and watch as the prince rides out.
He’s invited me to ride with him each morning, but so far, I’ve declined. He’s also invited me to spar every day, and though a part of me wants to test my skills against his, I dare not.
Restlessness itches along my arms. Maybe this is his plan. Drive me crazy by means of self-imposed exile and boredom. The wind calls my name, and my fingers yearn for a bow. I know he comes and goes—most likely seeing to the business of his kingdom via the Hallow—but apart from the demi-fey, I’m alone. Eris certainly avoids me, and I’m not that desperate for company, though the endless silence in these halls is making me question just how far I’ll go.
A single hunt by his side.
One ride.
What would be the harm?
The prince’s knowing smile comes to mind. That. That’s exactly the danger. Because he’s just intriguing enough to make me want to know more.
He cuts a lonely figure as he canters across the drawbridge. Every morning I’ve watched him head south into the forests there, where he returns with game. But this time he doesn’t turn south. This time he heads north, and he’s moving fast.
Odd.
The sun is inching back below the horizon. It’s the worst time of day to be riding so fast, but there’s a sense of urgency about him this morning.
And he’s heading north. North toward the wyldwoods. North toward the crumbling wall that once guarded the realms of Seelie from the Unseelie. North toward the border.
Something is afoot.
Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s too many days spent cooped up in this icy, echoing palace, where even the servants seem invisible, but it takes me precisely three seconds before I’m moving toward the stairs.
It’s not as though I’m stealing a horse from his stables. He did invite me to ride with him, after all.
There are only four horses available, and while three of them are big, rangy brutes that look like they could run all day and not flag, it’s the smaller, daintier mare at the end that catches my eye.
“Here, girl,” I whisper, holding out my hand for her to sniff my fingers.
She whickers approvingly and butts her head into my shoulder, almost knocking me over. I guess we’re friends now.
“Good girl,” I say, returning with her saddle. “Want to feel the wind in your face?”
She’s surprisingly easy to bridle, and while I’d prefer to get to know her a little better before I mount, I’m aware that every ticking second leads me closer to discovery. Swinging into the saddle, I urge her into the main courtyard.
“What are you doing?” someone calls behind me.
Caught.
I wheel the mare, glancing up. Eris pauses at the top of the palace wall, a hand on her sword. She arches a brow, as if to say get your ass back here.
Too bad I’m a rebellious princess who’s spent too long in her icy cage. I shrug, a smile warming me all the way through, and then I wheel the mare and give her her head. The swift clatter of her hooves over the drawbridge is echoed by Eris’s startled, “Hey!”
The wind whips past me, and snow flies beneath the mare’s heels. It feels as though she shares my eagerness. She’s utterly glorious, and for a second I forget the mission in the face of this glimpse of freedom.
Then the sight of hoofprints catch my eye. With the freshly laid snow, it’s ridiculously easy to follow the prince.
And he’s up to something, I know it in my bones.
Easing the white mare back into a canter, I swiftly follow the trail painted across the snow.
Eris is going to kill me if she catches me.
The thought is somewhat a cheerful one.
An ancient road heads directly into the craggy old forest ahead of me. It’s not like the forests of my mother’s lands. This one is old, and as I follow Thiago into the trees, I can feel the heavy, watchful sensation of it all around me. Old forests always seem somewhat alive, but this one has weight to it. Every so often I catch a glimpse of runes carved into the mossy flank of a tree, and piles of ancient stones mark the path.
The Old Ones walked this forest.
I can sense their power lingering in the earth, and the hum of a ley line vibrates through the air. I’ve always been able to sense the ley lines, but this one almost seems to whisper directly to me, as seductive as the prince himself.
The mare eases into a walk, her ears flickering nervously, as if she senses my sudden wariness.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea?
My sword’s at my side, and my mother’s iron dagger is sheathed at my hip, but there could be anything lurking beneath these trees.
I’m almost ready to turn back when I come across the prince’s stallion, tied to a tree.
He’s here.
I leave the mare in a clearing a hundred yards away and slip along on foot. Whatever he’s up to bodes no good for my people. My mother’s always suspected he has ties to the Unseelie and that he’s working to thwart the alliance. If I can deliver proof to her, then…
…then maybe she’ll forgive me for not using the dagger in my boot.
Maybe she won’t demand murder from me.
Ahead of me, Prince Thiago paces a snowy knoll, rubbing his leather-clad knuckles. If the sun was acting normally, I swear he’d be looking up, trying to gauge the time.
Someone’s late.
But who?
I slip through the trees, inching over the snow as I try to find a closer vantage point. I’m almost to a thicket when a tingle runs down my spine. Freezing, I crouch behind a tree just as the bushes ahead of me part and a rider appears.
The horse is enormous, with a coat the color of midnight and an evil look in its eyes. Steam fogs the air as it snorts, and its hooves barely make a
sound.
“You’re late,” Thiago growls, loud enough for the wind to carry it to my ears.
“Blame your own guards. They’re particularly thick along the border at the moment,” the stranger replies, swinging down from his mount.
His dark hair falls to his shoulders, and from behind, they’re the same size, the same height. That’s where the similarities end, though. The stranger wears beads and feathers plaited into his hair, and his long silvery cloak is made from what looks like wolf-kin.
Unseelie. He has to be Unseelie if he speaks of passing the borders.
A chill runs through me. Mother was right. The Prince of Evernight is meeting with the enemy.
“You look frustrated, old friend,” the stranger says. “How goes your endeavor with the princess?”
“Slowly,” Thiago mutters. “She’s being particularly stubborn.”
“I thought that was how you liked them?”
Thiago scrubs at his mouth. “I can’t help feeling that time’s running out. I only have two more months with her.”
“You’ve never failed before,” the stranger says.
“There’s always a first time.”
“And then what?”
Prince Thiago’s eyes narrow. “If I cannot woo the princess, then I’ll deal with her mother once and for all. I won’t let Adaia win.”
Woo? Win?
What in the Underworld is he speaking about?
“The game of love is more vicious than any battlefield I’ve ever been on,” the stranger muses. “I don’t envy you your masquerade. Though it amuses me to watch it, time and time again. Is it truly worth it?”
Game of love? If the prince thinks he’s going to win my heart, then he’s been drinking too much elderberry wine. I hold my breath as I wait for the prince to answer.
“Worth every moment of sacrifice,” he replies softly. “Worth every night I wake in my bed alone, dreaming of holding my wife in my arms again. I will have her back one day, no matter what I must do. No matter how long I must wait.”
“No matter how many times you must woo a haughty, arrogant princess who doesn’t care for you?” the stranger drawls.
