No one strikes me. I’m the king. Spires, even when I spar with Brock or Tristano, they have the good sense to at least pretend to be regretful when they get an odd hit in here and there. But not this changeling. There is no fear in her, not the same terror I saw when she watched me put Vigel to rest. Why does that please me so?
I stop and look over at her. “Apologies again, my prim and proper consort. Tell me, please, how you’d like me to take you the first time, and I will endeavor to meet your demands.”
“You’re laughing at me.” She shakes her head.
“Not at all.” I continue walking toward camp. “Give me your terms.”
“You mean terms of surrender?” She arches a red brow.
“If you’d like to call it that, sure.” I try to keep my tone amiable, but my heart burns to know her dark desires. “Do you need a bed of silk? Rose petals strewn about? Perhaps a luxurious—”
“No.” Now she’s the one who stops and turns to face me fully. “I’ll surrender when—and only when—your need for me eclipses your need for anyone or anything else. Whenyouare the one who surrenders to your desire. When you can’t go one more second without being inside me.” Her cheeks color again, but she keeps her chin up. “When you can’t take a breath without thinking my name. When I consume you, body and soul.”
She’s surprised me again. This nightling is already turning out to be well worth the nine consorts I left behind.
I hold out my hand, offering her a magical bond that can’t be broken. “I vow that I will not claim you until it is as you’ve said.” My orange burst of magic lights around us.
She stares at my palm, then, with a deep breath, reaches for me. My feral fae stirs when we touch, the faint heartbeat of my innermost soul waking as if from a long sleep.
The deal is sealed, and something inside me whispers about fate and desire and duty.
“Good.” She smiles, triumph in the tilt of her lips. “Let’s eat.”
11
Emma
Ikick the pillow closest to me. This carriage has been rocking down the sunny road for days, and I’ve had it. How far can the Shard of Day be? I knew my little village was close to the border, but I had no idea how large the Daylands were. Lifting one arm, I sniff myself. Ancestors, I need a bath.
The newness of the sun has worn off, though I still stare at the landscape, wondering at the beautiful colors in this new world. I dig inside my meager pack and pull out a scrap of precious canvas and a bit of charcoal.
Bracing myself as best I can against the carriage wall, I start a shaky sketch of the peach I ate. Slowly, I create it, though at first it resembles a butt more than anything else. But I use my fingertips to erase the wrong lines and repair the jagged errors caused by the carriage’s movement. It takes longer than it should, but by the time we stop again for a meal, the peach has been memorialized.
I hold it up, use my pinky finger to smudge a little more shading around the top, then consider my work. Stashing it on the bench behind me, I scoot toward the door, kick it open, and hop down onto the road.
My feet tangle with each other, damn slick shoes, and I almost fall, but a familiar hand steadies me.
“Careful, nightling. Travelling can throw off your balance.”
“I’m fine.” I should pull my arm away. I don’t. His touch has become more and more familiar over the past few days, and I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. About him.
“My lord?” Brock stands with another soldier, one I haven’t seen before. “Urgent news of another attack.”
“Watch your step.” Solano squeezes my arm, his eyes serious.
“More attacks?”
“Stay close.” He walks away, his wide back blocking my view as he and the others huddle together to hear the bad news.
I hurry into the grass on the side of the lane as the cook—who is now rather pleasant to me—sets up the cauldron and starts a fire. Ahead, a lake spreads out in an irregular shape, the edges full of rushes and in the far, hazy middle, an island. The moonlight dances in silver leaps along the water of the night realm. Here, it’s blindingly brilliant, as if the water is a crystal meant to refract each bit of sun that plays along its surface. If I had the paint, I’d draw this scene—the blue water, the bright flashes of sun, the green rushes, the misty island, and the rolling hills of verdant trees—as many times as necessary until I could almost smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle on the breeze and hear the soughing of the trees.
I almost trip again, then kick off my shoes and let the warm grass tickle my toes as I walk down the slope. Wildflowers grow here and there in this obscenely beautiful landscape, and I start running, stretching my arms as I go. Freedom from that damned wooden cage is sweet. I’m staying close like Solano said. Mostly, anyway. I just want a better view of the misty island.
Slowing, I take in a deep breath, then let it out. The air is filled with the scent of flowers, and I might fancy taking a nap in the grass if I didn’t spend so much time in the carriage trying to sleep away the hours. No, I’m wide awake, and—once again—I get a whiff of my underarms.By the Spires, I can’t live like this!
The water is sparkling, and I bet it’s nice and cool. It could freshen me right up, underarms included.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see the soldiers are already gathered around the cauldron or circled around Solano and Brock, not a single one of them bothering to look my way. I’m far enough that I can’t hear their voices.
