"Thank you," I tell him, meaning it. He's risking his life just bringing me here.
He nods, though his face is grim. "May the gods watch over you."
I don't tell him that the seventy-seven gods of Aelfheim have no power here. In Avalon, different rules apply.
I step down from the carriage onto soft grass. Behind me, I hear the carriage door close and I don't look back. Looking back would only make this harder. I straighten my spine and begin walking toward the distant glow of the tree.
Music drifts through the air, the sounds of a celebration already well underway. I join the flow of masked guests moving toward the entrance, keeping my steps measured and confident. I belong here. I have every right to be here. The mask will make sure no one thinks otherwise.
An attendant appears at my elbow.
"Welcome to Calanmai," he says, his voice like wind through autumn leaves. I take his extended hand and step forward, letting him guide me toward the spiraling stairs carved into the trunk.
"First time attending?" he asks pleasantly.
"Yes," I say, keeping my voice light and unremarkable. The mask should handle the rest, making my answer forgettable even as he hears it.
"You'll find the main festivities on the third platform," he continues, gesturing upward. "Though guests are welcome toexplore all levels. The Dawnroot has many secrets for those curious enough to seek them."
It sounds like an invitation and a warning.
"I'll keep that in mind," I say.
He releases my hand and steps back, already turning to greet the next arrival. I'm dismissed and forgotten, exactly as I need to be.
I place my hand on the railing and begin to climb. The living wood seems to pulse faintly beneath my palm. There's no turning back now. I walk deeper into the heart of enemy territory with each step.
Inside, the opulence is overwhelming. Chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling but they're not like any chandeliers I've ever seen. They're made from the tree's own branches, twisted into elegant spirals and hung with crystals. The effect is like standing inside a sunset that never ends.
I force myself to start moving again before someone notices me standing frozen like a fool. Musicians occupy a platform directly above this one. I can see them through gaps in the leaves. One plays what looks like a harp strung with spider silk. The music is haunting and seductive. I feel the pull of it, the invitation to dance and lose myself in the celebration.
I resist. Barely.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I move deeper into this den of beautiful monsters. These are beings who have lived for thousands of years and perfected the arts of deception. One slip and I'm dead.
After the first terrible minutes, I begin to relax a little. Just enough to think clearly instead of through a haze of panic. The mask's magic holds perfectly. No one looks at me twice or remembers my face two seconds after turning away. I'm a ghost in their court, invisible and insignificant. But I keep my guard raised at all times.
A server passes by with a tray of drinks and food. My stomach growls despite my wariness. I haven't eaten since before dawn, too nervous about this mission to keep anything down. But I don't touch the food.
Fae food is dangerous. Everyone knows the stories. One bite and you're bound to this realm for eternity. And nothing is more dangerous than fae wine. It tastes like the one thing you want most and then strips it from you, leaving you hollow and desperate for more.
I pass a group of winged fae. Their wings are magnificent, varying from delicate bat-like membranes to solid black feathers. Near one of the carved support columns, a veiled nymph holds court. I catch fragments as I pass.
"—the eastern border is practically undefended," one of the nobles is saying, his voice low but not quite low enough. "If Eirik orders the attack now—"
"He won't," the nymph interrupts. "Not until after Calanmai. It would be... inappropriate."
"Since when does Eirik Bloodhound care about appropriateness?"
Laughter, dark and knowing.
I commit every word to memory and move on before they notice I've been lingering too long.
My hand drifts toward the pouch at my waist. The summoning chalk inside is my only weapon, but using it would be suicide. Everyone knows the Queen of Aelfheim is a summoner. So the chalk stays in its pouch. I continue collecting fragments of conversation like a crow collecting shiny things. Most of it is useless gossip about affairs and feuds but occasionally I catch something valuable.
Each piece adds to the picture forming in my mind. Eirik is ready for war. He's just waiting for the right moment to strike.
That moment might be soon.
