Fifty-Two
Iwake because of an incessant buzzing. Although I’ve never wished harm on a creature, I’m a little miffed with the insect that’s decided to pull me out of my slumber. As I blink the world into focus, I realize, with great surprise, that I’m covered in palm fronds.
Did a windstorm sweep through Monteluce while I slept? I push up onto my elbows, the fronds slipping noiselessly off my warmed, rested body and gliding into the limpid pool. For a windstorm, the palm fronds are very localized. All of them on my body. No, someone put them there. Even though a person that shields you from the sun shouldn’t inspire dread, my pulse ramps up as I squint around my private oasis. The only living beings I see, besides the hordes of buzzing insects, are my stallion and my crow.
Well, notmycrow.
Thecrow I happen to be helping out.
The crow whose eyes are presently shut. As I wonder if he’s the one who covered me in palm leaves, I’m sucked into a world with no light, save for a handful of stars and a faraway bonfire.
I stand on a hill, a few paces away from a woman garbed in red silk and a man dressed all in black. They don’t see me, too busy staring at the people amassed around the bonfire, so I study them openly.
The woman’s coiled locks reach her narrow waist and snap in a breeze I cannot feel, the same breeze that flutters the male’s cloak and the black hair that curls around his rounded ears.
“My father wants us to marry.” The woman turns, and I get an eyeful of her profile. Straight nose, pale eyes, skin as brown as her hair, and lips so full they look like Ptolemy Timeus’s silken boat cushions.
“I’m aware.” The man glances at the woman, and I catch the black smudge of charcoal smeared all around his eye. It reminds me of my father. I’m guessing the male I’m staring at is another Crow-follower.
“You don’t have to worry. You and I won’t marry, Lore.”
Lore.I suck in a breath. This is the man who owns the winged quintuplets. The master of the crows. Which decidedly is a strange concept considering Morrgot considers himself king. Maybe this man is the rebelhumanking of the crow supporters, while Morrgot rules over the animal part of the tribe.
“How harsh you are.” It strikes me that Lore sounds a lot like Morrgot, but people who spend a lot of time together start acting and speaking similarly.
The woman laughs, a breezy, beautiful sound. “Save the theatrics for those who don’t know you.”
Lore smiles, a curve so subtle I may have missed it was it not for the gleam of his teeth.
“Cian is my mate.”
“I’ve heard. He hasn’t stopped speaking about it since you penetrated his mind.” They both turn back toward the bonfire. “Has your father heard?”
“My father wouldn’t hear it even if I yelled it into his ear. He wants you and me to marry. Marriages are powerplays; not love matches.” After a beat, she adds, “He wants your kingdom, Lore. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust him.”
“You know this better than anyone, Bronwen, but I trust no one.”
I clap my lips.
“You trust me, don’t you?” This is the same woman as the blind soothsayer who forecasted my future?
“You’ve yet to give me a reason not to.”
I step closer, absorbing her features. The woman standing on the summit of the hill is gorgeous. Her skin smooth as melted chocolate, and her eyes, although pale, have color in them. I cannot tell which one from where I stand, but I can tell they’re not white.
“What happened to you?” I whisper out loud.
Where she doesn’t turn, Lore does. He looks down at me, eyes smudged in so much black that his bright irises stand out like coins. “Fallon?”
I freeze.
He knows my name.Loreknows my name!
“Bronwen!” I yell to capture the woman’s attention and demand why she passed herself off as a blind, deformed crone.
She turns, but not toward me. She turns toward the valley and the bonfire that shoots sparks into the night air. And then she’s gone and so is Lore. And so is the hill and the abundance of shadows.
I’m sitting upright on my boulder, blinking wide eyes at Morrgot. “What the underworld was that?”
