by Bec McMaster
Instantly, I can see this meeting deteriorating until it’s nothing more than accusations and insults.
“I saw it,” I call.
The room stills.
Four pairs of eyes turn to me, and my mother’s hold murder.
“I saw it too,” I repeat. “The Hallow stones are nearly all standing. Angharad had tribes of captured goblins working pulleys, and a couple of enormous trolls. The entire city was guarded by banes wearing her sigil, and her banner flew over her tent.”
“Did you see Angharad herself?” Queen Maren asks.
My mother’s fingers drum, one by one, on the arm of her throne.
I tilt my chin. “No. But Isem was there.”
“How close did you manage to get?” Lucidia demands, her blind eyes staring straight through me.
Not close enough. I know what she’s asking. “We were half a span away. On a rooftop. But it was there. The Hallow was risen.”
“When you say you saw the Unseelie queen’s tent there,” Lucidia murmurs, “was the banner over the tent waving in the wind?”
What?
“Why does that matter?”
“Illusions are the prince’s gift,” Queen Maren murmurs. “How are we to know if what you’re saying is the truth? If you were closer, then you may have been able to see if the scene was real.”
“Illusions are difficult to control on such a large scale,” Queen Lucidia adds. “It’s the small things that slip. A banner standing still in the breeze. The lack of scent of rank, unwashed troll. The echo of a bane’s howl.”
A muscle in Thiago’s jaw pulses. “First, I’m toying with her mind, and now I’m conjuring illusions to fool her. What an elaborate scheme I have planned.”
“What you’re suggesting speaks of war,” Queen Maren replies coldly. “We merely wish to ascertain the truth before we commit to an action that will drag the entire alliance into a bloody battle that none of us wish to fight.”
“You also speak of Mistmere, and those territories have long been disputed,” Queen Lucidia adds. “The game is already afoot between you and Adaia. It ends in a few brief months, which makes this the perfect time for a distraction.”
“Angharad has signed the treaty,” my mother adds, “with her own blood. To break it means instant death. So why would she encroach in lands not her own?”
“As I recall, she turned away to slice her wrist,” Thiago snaps. “I certainly didn’t see if it was her blood that dripped into the cauldron, or her servant’s. I’m not the only one with the gift of illusions.”
“But you have an interest in Mistmere,” Lucidia says.
“What possible cause does Angharad have to raise the Hallow?” My mother arches a mocking brow. “The Old Ones are trapped. And she has her own Hallows in Unseelie lands if she wishes to travel.”
“Nor did she serve the Mother of Night,” Maren adds. “She was bound to the Horned One.”
It seems as if they’re working in tandem against him.
Realization dawns: they are.
I told my mother about Mistmere, and she came prepared. But why would she do this? Does she not care about the Unseelie threat? Or does she think it may rid her of her most dangerous enemy?
“I don’t know what her interest in Mistmere is formed of,” Thiago says very quietly and very coldly. “Perhaps you can ask her.”
We’re getting nowhere.
He warned me that this meeting would be frustrating, but I’ve never truly witnessed the pettiness of the alliance.
How in Maia’s name did they ever drive the Unseelie back?
“If it was an illusion, then it was a grand one,” I tell them. “I felt the power of the ley line igniting. The heat of a bane’s blood splashed across my cheek, and the sensation of their teeth drove into my flesh. I could feel the warmth of their breath on my skin, and the shiver down my spine at the sound of their howls. I know you struggle to believe him, but what if he’s speaking the truth?”
I turn to Maren. “You share a border with the Unseelie kingdoms. Both you and Evernight will be the hardest hit if Angharad is truly plotting something.”
She and Lucidia share a look.
“And the alliance still hasn’t recovered from the last war,” I continue. “Mistmere is an empty land frayed at the edges by the claims of several others kingdoms. The Mountain Kingdom of Taranis lies fallow, its scorched plains peopled by monsters and howling winds. All that’s left are the four kingdoms represented here and the Isles of Stormhaven, where Prince Kyrian resides. Unless Angharad builds a fleet, he’s the only one of us who can consider himself safe.”
“Do you think we’re unaware of our geography?” my mother sneers.
“No. But I’d prefer not to kneel before Angharad,” I say, deliberately painting a picture my mother will despise, “and if we continue with this bickering, I will be. I may not agree with Prince Thiago on all matters, but I know what I saw with my own eyes. And if you don’t trust me, then send an envoy to see for yourself. Send Andraste.”
My mother’s eyes glitter with unspoken reprimand.
She’s too full of spite and enmity to care whether the alliance falls.
But my words do damage where I didn’t expect them to.
“Your daughter provides wise council,” Queen Lucidia murmurs.
“We shall each send an envoy so we may each make a decision we trust,” Queen Maren agrees, and I can tell that she, at least, is picturing her northern borders.
“So we shall,” my mother pronounces, sweeping to her feet. “And now, if this mockery of a meeting is done, I have things to do.”
With that she sweeps into the circle of light spilling through the roof and vanishes.
I wait until we’re alone in Thiago’s inner chambers before I turn on him.
“Is there something I should know about this treaty?” I demand. “The queens seem to think this is some sort of game being played between you and my mother.”
“It was a game, and I bested her,” he replies. “That’s all you need to know.”
I’m tired of hearing those words.
Tired of knowing nothing. Locked away in a city of wraiths where there’s no one to even speak to beyond the prince. Blindfolded and led here, where I’m effectively locked away again, a princess in her tower.
“How kind of you to tell me what I do and don’t need to know.” The words sound like they came from my mother’s lips.
Thiago shoots me a hard look. “I would tell you more if I thought I could trust you.”
“Who am I going to tell?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He tugs at his collar, loosening the top two buttons of his black velvet doublet. “Your mother, perhaps.”
“She’s at Hawthorne Castle by now.”
“Perhaps you can whisper the words to your grate then,” he says, his voice as smooth and rich as midnight.
He knows.
It stills my tongue. Forces me to straighten. “Listening in, were we?”
“The demi-fey told me. You’re not the only one who feeds them milk and honey. Besides, I did warn you that you were predictable. It’s a trait you’ve inherited from your mother.”
I want to ball my fist and drive it into his abdomen, though his half-vicious smile warns me against such a thought.
Instead, I pace, ignoring the rustle behind me as he drapes his cloak over one of the chairs.
“If you want to continue to take your frustration out on me,” he growls, “then I should warn you. I’m not feeling entirely playful today.”
“Neither am I,” I snap. “They don’t believe us.”
“They are warned.” Thiago merely pours me a goblet of wine, his face expressionless. “That is all that matters.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” They practically called him a liar to his face and accused him of manipulating me. And I’m the gullible fool dancing to his tune, according to them.
“I expected it,” he replies, handing me the wine. “The Alliance co
uldn’t find its own ass with both hands and a faelight as bright as the sun. If one queen says something, then the others will immediately find her words suspect. Kyrian and myself, more than the rest.”
“Because you’re male.”
“Because we both claimed our thrones by rule of might,” he replies, tipping the goblet to his lips. “Not by bloodline.”
His throat muscles work as he swallows.
I understand what my mother sees when she looks at him now. All the old tales say only a queen may rule, but Kyrian and Thiago took those lands through sheer might. Fae queens are always born, their talents and powers nurtured, their magic linked to the lands they will one day rule. And when an heir is chosen, the lines of power are locked.
But the two princes broke the rules.
They have no ties to their lands, and yet their kingdoms are flourishing.
I think of my stepbrother, Edain, and the way mother quashed his powers by binding him to her and sweeping him into her bed the second her consort was dead. I used to hate it, but I think I understand now.
The Lords of the Marsh are bound to serve her will, their powers muted by the blood contracts they signed.
And of the other nobles, she accepted their sons and daughters into her court to serve as pages and ladies-in-waiting. Some might say hostages would be a better term.
She culled every female in the land who might prove a threat.
And she’s hobbled every male who might have ambitions.
But, thanks to Kyrian and Thiago, she must now wonder, every time she looks around her court, whether others watch her and whisper. She must always be on her guard now, both within and without. She is a queen who rules through fear and threats, because they’re all she knows.
And it won’t matter what Angharad does, she’ll never see beyond the threat of the two princes.
I want to throw the fucking wine in the fireplace. “The alliance are fools.”
A wry smile touches his mouth. “Careful. I’m one of them.”
“Not you. You’re….” I wave a hand at him.
“I’m…?”
“A little less foolish,” I amend.
“Come now,” he teases. “Don’t hold back.”
I stare at him. You’re dangerous and powerful and ruthless, and yet you’re also the man who saved me from a bane trap. You’re the man who always has a piece of apple for his horse. The one who rides out singlehandedly to see the truth for his own eyes.
“You’re a prince,” I tell him. “And you rule with a firm and steady hand.”
“How… generic.”
“It’s not.” I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “My mother rules with spite and ambition. Queen Maren rules with secrecy and lies. And Lucidia’s people only know hunger and harsh taxes, for she is frugal and bitter.” And, if the rumors are to be believed, she is weakening. “You rule with acceptance. I’ve seen the court that flocks to your banners. No other ruler in the alliance would have allowed Eris to grace their halls. Or Baylor. You think of the future. You fear the past. And today, you tried to reach three power-hungry queens to convince them to work together to face a dangerous threat, even when they sneered at you and insulted you.” I hesitate. “You’re a better ruler than every queen in that chamber, and that’s what they fear.”
There’s a stillness to his frame, as if he’s absorbing those words.
I think, for the first time since I’ve met him, that I’ve rendered him speechless.
“And now, if you’re done with me, I think I should seek my bed.” The weight of the day’s frustrations itch along my skin. And there’s a certain sense of closeness in this moment, as if we’ve both got our shields down.
I’m not sure it’s wise to stay.
“I’m not done with you.”
He moves suddenly, every inch of him rich with motion, with intent.
“What now?” I demand, realizing he’s closer to me than I expected.
“Now?” he murmurs, taking the goblet from my hand and setting it aside on a table. “What do you think?”
The afternoon light is fading. And with the onset of night comes the payment of certain promises….
“You spoke like a queen today,” he murmurs, tilting his head down to look at me. “Don’t think the others didn’t notice.”
“My mother didn’t like it.”
“Your mother doesn’t like any of us. Trust me, you’re in elite company.”
That old, familiar tension pools in my stomach as he steps closer.
Every night it’s been like this.
A promise owed, and a debt claimed.
Thiago presses one hand to the table behind me, his hard body caging me in. Leaning forward, his breath whispering over my lips, he pauses.
I can’t look away.
One move and he’ll claim my mouth. I know he will. He wants to. I see it in his eyes, those ever-present fires stoked with every nightly encounter between us. There is all manner of sin in those eyes. They promise me exquisite pleasure, and they demand complete surrender.
It’s that last one I have a problem with.
But he never takes that step.
He always waits for me to make it, as if this is a game, and every time I push my piece into play, he’s the one who secretly wins.
I owe him a simple kiss. Just one. And every night they’ve been the briefest of brushes, my lips to his.
“What are you waiting for?” he whispers, his other hand reaching up to hover an inch from my breast.
I can almost feel that touch on my skin.
You.
I close my eyes against temptation and give into the inevitable, lifting on my toes and brushing my mouth against his.
Thiago leans closer, the heat of his body hovering between us. His wrist brushes against my hip, his hand flexing with the desire to touch. But it’s forbidden. Without my word, he cannot.
I feel his frustration in the tension of his body, the trembling of those hands. It’s taking everything within him to restrain himself.
And I don’t want him to hold back.
When my lips meet his, I can tell instantly that this is different. He feels it too. The moment stretches out too long, and it’s as if he senses my hesitation. His tongue brushes against my mouth, begging for more, and I can’t help myself.
I give it.
Inch by inch, he steals away my willpower. Open, his mouth urges, and then his tongue is slick against mine and there’s a gasp trapped in my throat. I melt into that hard body, trembling hands coming to rest against the hard slab of his chest.
More, his lips demand. Desperation and hunger ignite within me, and it’s like my body has a will of its own. My fingers curl in his shirt, and Thiago captures my mouth, eating at me as if wants to devour me.
Yield, his body insists, and he pushes back, hard, until my ass hits the table, and one hand clenches in my hair. I’m drowning in the taste of him. It feels as though a dam has burst, and it’s both too much and not enough.
I break my mouth from his, breathing hard.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus. It’s still not enough. I want more. It’s been a long time since I’ve had another’s hands on my skin, and never like this. Never burning through me like wildfire, threatening to destroy every last hint of control I own.
Gentle hands stroke down my sides, and every inch of my being wants to grab a fistful of his hair and tug his face back down to mine. He can see it too, heat darkening those green eyes until they’re practically smoldering.
“Vi,” he says, reaching for me.
I shove away from him, my hands going to my branded lips. This was a terrible idea.
Because I want more.
I want to forget he’s my enemy, I want to forget this is a game, forget everything but the sensation of those lips on my skin. Of all the challenges I’ve ever faced, this is the worst.
Because I don’t think one taste will ever be enough.
“Goodnight,” I call,
forcing myself to haul out the daughter of Queen Adaia and cloak myself in my role as an Asturian princess.
She’s cold and regal and invulnerable to kisses.
Her heart doesn’t race.
“Until tomorrow,” Thiago says softly, and as I close the door behind me, I know those words will haunt every hour of the night ahead.
19
It’s after midnight when I realize I’m not going to be getting any sleep tonight.
With a sigh, I toss my blankets back, grab a silk robe, and escape into the tower. A cup of warm milk might do the trick, though I have no idea where the kitchens are, or even if I’ll be allowed to visit them.
After all, I’m the enemy, aren’t I?
It’s one thing to be dismissed by my mother, quite another to realize Thiago’s keeping secrets from me too. I don’t know when I started to trust him, but to realize he doesn’t return the sentiment feels like a knife wound to the chest.
The hallways are empty, though I feel the stir of one of the demi-fey shooting past, and golden eyes blink at me from the ceiling before vanishing in the sprawl of carved leaves that embellish the cornice.
“Do you know where the kitchens are?” I whisper.
Movement shifts out of the corner of my eye. One of the demi-fey weaving around a marble column like a cat wending its way through a pair of legs.
I haven’t been here long enough to cultivate them, but they’re curious little beasties.
“I want some warmed milk. And if someone were to assist me, I might be able to leave some milk out for them too.”
Three shadows bob closer. The little sprites are creatures born of the elements; they have the curiosity and intelligence of a cat, though they don’t seem to understand concepts like honor, or truth, or treachery.
“Maybe even some honey….”
One of the sylphs’ forms grows more solid, until she’s blinking those amber eyes at me. Tugging at my robe, she leads me to the left before vanishing in a swirl of wind.
I can feel them herding me, scampering through the fretwork as if it’s a forest. Others join them, curious now. All I need is a pipe, and I might as well be the famed Piper of Haggelund, luring the sprites from a town they’ve infested.
