We stayed in each other’s arms until they pulled us apart. There were no solemn farewell words, just a silent nod, an acknowledgment that this might be our last meeting.
*
The familiar streets of Tenebris fly by behind the curtained window of the carriage, each corner and alley a chapter of my life. We pass the old bakery; sneaking glazed bagels from the bakery was a childhood thrill, their sweet aroma unforgettable. Next to it is the fashion tailor’s shop, its tall windows displaying dreamlike dresses, where me and Tayna would spend hours admiring the gowns we could never afford; the crumbling Temple of the Five with its dusty library, which has seen better times... And just before the tall city gates—the Gallows Hills and the countless unmarked graves behind them. Somewhere there lay my parents, among numerous others, and a couple of Seelie who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Is it the euphoria of the sun-drenched open road, the warm summer air holding promises of long sunny days and short nights, but it all fills me with an unexpected sense of freedom as soon as the carriage passes through the city gates. For the first time in a long while, there’s hope. I stretch out on the worn velvet seat, the soft new clothes hugging my skin, and hum a melody. Everything is as it should be, for now.
The carriage is tossing me left and right the further we get from the city. The road is in miserable condition. The Unseelie don’t invest much in infrastructure; the remnants of roads in Satreyah were built by the Seelie centuries ago. The fields around Tenebris stretch like a sea on both sides of the road, the wind rippling their green surface. Crops and the workers are protected by magical crystals and Eloysse’s magic during the long nights, even if they’re outside the city walls. Peasants look up when they hear hoofs on the uneven pavement, and some of them wave at us with their straw hats.
Tall pillars stand out among the lush verdant, like the masts of a sunk fleet, their dark sails rolled up neatly: it’s one of the inventions that followed the Hex and helped us survive in a world altered by the cruel gods. When the nights started getting long centuries ago, humans quickly realized that their crops needed light to grow, but too much light can be equally deadly. The golden glow of the magical crystals protecting the cities damaged the plants, so scientists from the past created those large foldable tents of dark fabric. In the long nights, they’re pulled by dozens of workers and draft animals in carefully calculated hours to shield some plants from the excessive magical light. Working in the fields is a job for convicted criminals, who sleep outside the city walls and often fall prey to the Tainted Ones. It’s where most of the kids from the Blessed Dawn orphanage end up, unless they don’t have a sweet smile and golden locks like Tayna, or an affinity to bend the rules like me.
The vegetation soon turns gray and scarce, weeds mingle with the wheat, and the bird songs die out. All remnants of the ancient pavement are swallowed by the dark and barren soil.
We are in the Wastelands.
Centennial woods, bustling with life, stretched here before the Hex. Forests teeming with wolves, bears, foxes and smaller beasts, skies charted by eagles, birdsongs and the aroma of flowers in the air.
Now, every breath crushes the lungs with the distant stench of death and fire. Sun rays barely break through the sticky haze, tinting everything gray and muffling the sounds of voices and hooves. Soot dances around like morbid snowflakes.
The governor’s soldiers have regrouped. They ride close to the carriage now, peering into the dead forest surrounding us. Unseen threats reach out to our caravan from the dead branches, and I shuffle nervously. It’s the first-time traveler syndrome, probably, though the soldiers also look all tensed up. Now, back in Tenebris, the sun has warmed up the crystalline waters of the Fountain of the Five on Temple Square, and all street urchins are diving into its clear waters before the priests come out, chasing them to the streets. My chest tightens as the rows of black charred trunks around blur my vision. We ride as if a Tainted horde is at our heels.
My stomach growls, drawing my eyes to the picnic basket on the opposite bench. I reach for a wafer, the sweet taste a brief solace. Outside, the tainted sunlight shifts. Atos’s hairy armpits, it is getting dark! Terror solidifies in my gut when the soldiers spur their horses and gallop ahead. What Fae trickery is this? Have they brought me here just to abandon me at Nightfall?
A glow, much stronger than the thinning sunlight, filters through the lacy curtains of the carriage window.
Have they somehow led us through a portal? The dead forest is transformed into another world. Hundreds of torches stand on both sides of the road. The forest floor beneath the wheels is draped with golden cloth, just like the old tales describe the Sacred City of the Elders.
With one final shudder, the carriage halts, and the door flies open. I hop down, nearly losing my balance after hours of sitting. A loud crackle of magic and a bright flash above startles me, and I whip my head up. Elders! A thick, blinding protective halo unfolds over a wide clearing crowded with colorful tents. At its center, surrounded by dozens of Fae soldiers in steel armor, stands a grand, domed tent of fine fabric.
Soft music and the clank of glasses spill out of its entrance.
“Welcome, Talysse of No Name,” a masculine voice startles me. The Fae male is dressed like a prince and greets me with a polite bow. A refined courtier, without a doubt. “You are late; forgive us for starting the feast without you.”
“A feast?” I say, voice trembling. It is not what I’ve expected from brutal Trials with a survival chance of around zero.
“Please follow me.” The courtier glides over the cloth of gold, giving me no choice but to follow.
The hairs on my nape stand up as we pass by the dozens of Unseelie soldiers, their polished armor shining in the golden light of the halo. Atos take them; there are so many of them! Sitting around their campfires or patrolling in smaller groups in the space between the tents, they ignore us. The unease of their presence still lingers as we slip into the large tent. So, this is what a lamb among wolves feels.
The air under the tall dome of thin fabric is surprisingly cooler and—are these snowflakes? Just below the draped ceiling rages a tiny snowstorm. If it is a clever illusion or some unknown spell, I cannot tell, as I’m busy staring at the crowd in the wide space. More than a dozen humans and Fae are sitting at a long table loaded with steaming roasted meats, pastries, mountains of fruits, and sparkling wine in tall golden-rimmed glasses. My mind cannot fathom all the abundance, but my stomach does, and to my embarrassment, it rumbles loudly.
“Lords and ladies, here comes Talysse of No Name from Tenebris, Satreyah Province. May she please the Elders in these Nightfall Trials!”
I wince at the wave of attention crushing on me, curious eyes staring at my clothes, evaluating my posture, glaring at my scar. I take a step forward, straighten my shoulders, and plaster a grin on my face.
Everyone quickly returns to what they were doing: eating and talking in hushed tones.
The courtier shows me to a seat at the head of the table. On my left sits a strong-built man with a bronze complexion and blond hair so typical for Odryssia. His bright eyes linger on my clothes and my scratched face. His lips curl into a thin smile, and he leans back, crossing his arms over a velvet jerkin threaded with gold. He looks like the man I’d wished to marry if everything had gone as planned in my life. If I had grown up as a refined, fancy-educated lady in my parents’ mansion, not as a daughter of traitors, an orphan, and a criminal.
I nervously tuck in some loose strands back into my crown braid and study the rows of unfamiliar cutlery, terrifying as siege weapons lined up before the city walls. Well, that should do. I pick the largest spoon and start scooping steamed vegetables into my plate. A cackle makes my hand freeze mid-air. The Odryssian man whispers something in the ear of a statuesque blonde human woman sitting next to him, and she’s laughing, her eyes pinned on me. Obviously, my cutlery choice was amusing. Her long, flaxen hair drapes her back, and she’s leaning on his shoulder, quite an intimate gesture. When our eyes meet, hers flicker with disgust, and she quickly leans closer to the blond man and whispers something in his ear. Something that makes them both burst into laughter at my expense.
I raise a glass to them, looking the princess-y woman straight in the eye. This makes her uncomfortable, and she looks away. I shrug and shovel buttery vegetables in my mouth, refusing to feel self-conscious about my worn-out velour pants, faded shirt, and the doublet, which has had its share of owners before me. The contrast to what she is wearing is striking; the light leather armor that hugs her curves looks specifically crafted for her, embellished with a golden coat of arms. The crowd from the back alleys of Tenebris eats princesses like this for breakfast. Responding with a grin, flashing too many teeth, I let them laugh and shift my attention to the rest of the group.
Thank the Elders for this seat! The chair on my right is empty, and it gives me the opportunity to study the others without the annoyance of small talk.
A short and bulky man with a shaved skull and bare, muscled arms, focused entirely on the food, sits next to the woman in the fancy armor I’ve already nicknamed Warrior Pony Princess. He’s wearing shimmering chainmail and is chewing so intensely that thick veins are bulging on his temples. Droplets of fat glisten on his bejeweled vambraces. Every time he looks up from the spiced drumsticks and creamy potato puree, he watches the other guests. Especially the Fae. We obviously share the same disdain.
I know his kind; I have seen them on caravans passing Tenebris. He is a mercenary, a ruthless man tempered in the Wastelands, aware of all the dangers lurking in this dead world. And a damned good one, judging by the myriad of gold rings on his short, sturdy fingers. Well, this is someone I’d love to have on my side, yet mercenaries are selfish and unpredictable. He cocks his head when he regards me, his low, sun-scorched forehead wrinkling. Almost immediately, his dark eyes turn cold, and he looks away. Seems like he’s just classified me as harmless, not strong enough to be trouble.
