More than that—we shouldbea team.
The others’ reaction seems to calm Basten’s temper the same way it did mine, and he drops the tense set of his shoulders. He rakes back his hair, taming his unsteady breathing.
I swallow, searching his eyes for a tiny crack, a flicker of softness I can cling to and find my way back to him.
“Regardless of how the book was acquired,” Kendan cuts in, his official tone smoothing over the last of my prickly edges. “The Fae Games are a strong idea.”
I keep my eyes low, focused on the book, trying not to show how my hands are shaking—though I can’t hide anything from Basten.
“I haven’t said the best part yet. At the end of the Fae Games, bring them out to the gallows. Only, instead of hanging, my father will pardon them. The ultimate show of peace. That the humans of this city can trust the fae.”
I look eagerly between their faces, feeling slightly less confident than before.
That’s an awful idea, Rian said when I proposed the pardon.You want the public to embrace the fae? They want to see them burn, not pardon. Give the people what they want.
The whole point, I tried to explain, is to show the fae are peaceful.
Is peace why the public adore fae tales? Do the Dramatics in pubs showcase their benevolence? Look—I know how the public thinks. I was raised in a family that catered to their base impulses. We made a fortune off gambling, whoring, fights for coin. No one worships a damn pacifist. You want people to love the fae? The Cold Coins terrorized the city—give them bloody, raw vengeance as only the fae can do.
The memory of Rian’s words see-saw through me, make my nerves jangle. Yes, Riandoesunderstand how the public thinks, what drives them to spend their few precious coins.
But we aren’t appealing to people’s base instincts. We’re appealing to their highest ones. To the fae’s, too. Trying to create abetterworld.
Lord Kendan nods slowly, his eyes growing more excited. “The new reign will be marked by peace, not vengeance. We won’t set the prisoners free, of course, but life in the dungeon should both demonstrate mercy and appease the public’s desire for justice.” He starts rolling up the map. “If we are all in agreement, I’ll have my staff begin preparations for the Fae Games, starting on the Blood Moon.”
Basten nods a dismissal.
Matron White touches the key emblem on her robe—the gesture of homage to Immortal Iyre, which feels like a slap in my face—and primly strides from the room. Kendan finishes rolling the maps and leaves.
Then, it’s Basten and me. And about six feet of air between us that crackles like heat lightning, charged with everything we’ve said and haven’t said.
This tension can’t possibly hang over us forever. At some point, it’s going to have to break.
I glance his way and murmur, “You don’t think it’s a good idea, do you? You don’t trust me.”
He sighs, his voice softening. “I don’t trust the fae.”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and head for the door. Before leaving, I look back. “Exactly.”
Chapter 24
Basten
I’ve missed the feel of a blunt object in my hand.
I’m dressed in one of Folke’s old whiskey-stained cloaks with the hood raised, a tattered cloth around my nose and mouth, so only my eyes are visible. The crown? Left in the Treasury Room on a velvet pillow. The king’s sword? On its rack in the Royal Armory.
The best part of all is getting to wear a comfortable fucking shirt for once.
Ahead, Folke strides down the Sin Streets district, stepping gracefully over reeking puddles of piss and ale. Dim lanterns cast pools of murky light into the dark night, barely enough to read the signs for pubs and brothels.
Behind him, Rian skirts the puddles, shackles clatter lightly around his wrists, hidden under the cloak. “Dammit,” he mutters. “I stepped in dog shit.”
“You’re lucky we let you out of the Coffin at all,” I say, following him closely, in case he thinks he can bolt. “You have Sabine to thank for that—and the fact that you’re the only one who can take us to the safe houses.”
Folke stops and looks both ways down a street. “Speaking of…”
“Next street, take a left,” Rian murmurs to Folke. “A tavern by the name of The Cracked Keg.”
