“I am undecided.”
My childhood had not been amiable, either. I would still give anything to have my sisters back.
Just as I’d predicted, the group of courtiers loitering near the first of the six pedestals moved off well before we could reach them. Being a pariah had its advantages. We paused. Garrick leaned down, as if he were showing me his father’s treasures. This one was a golden helm inscribed with runes, but not any that I recognized. If they belonged to witches, they were not any that had ever dwelt in Velora.
Garrick lifted his brows.
“No,” I said.
We lingered for another minute to pretend to admire the helm, then continued on. We repeated the spectacle.
Then again.
Again, I shook my head. We were more than halfway around the circular presence chamber, but my hopes were already far below, taking up residence in the dungeons.
Lying in bed, it had felt like a long shot. Then, when Garrick mentioned the pedestals and the fae king’s penchant for showing off, I’d felt a surge of hope. But that was too easy. If Maura created a talisman, she would not leave it where any fae courtier could pick it up. Even Auri had said it was hidden. But hidden in plain sight was still hidden.
Damn it all to the Dark God’s frigid, frozen hell.
We’d have to pass Alize on our way out. I doubted that she would let us go without a word. She always had something to say. In the gates, in the bathhouse. She liked the sound of her own voice.
“What are you looking for?” Garrick said as we passed the three-quarter mark.
“Power.” I realized how amorphous it sounded even as I said it. “I expect that I will feel it here, like I did before, when…”
My knees wobbled at the memory of the power in my chest, dragging me toward the pentagram and the wailing woman inches from death. I never wanted to feel like that again, and yet here I was, parading through the Court of Lies in hopes of something similar. Fuck the Dark God and his manipulations.
Garrick’s hand tightened on my arm. “No one is dying in this presence chamber today.”
My chest loosened. He could not guarantee that, my mind argued. There was such loathing in the eyes of the fae. I more than reciprocated. We were one another’s only true rivals on the continent, even before the curse had drained Velora’s life away. They were reduced to this single castle stronghold. We were the last coven.
But it was they who’d brought down the curse. They had angered the gods with their endless grasping for magic beyond their gifts. Without them, I would have grown up with a mother. My father would never have turned to selling fae artifacts. Maybe we would not have grown rich. But I’d have my sisters.
I would not have died alone in a frostbitten forest. I would not have become a witch.
My power thrashed at the suggestion. I gripped Garrick’s arm tighter, letting his warmth travel up through my fingers and into my arm. It rose quicker, but it was easier to push back,too. Damn him, the Dark God was right. I was getting better at controlling my power.
Just in time.
The last pedestal held a long dagger, broken into two pieces. The handle was wrapped in leather, worn down to the shape of a long-ago bearer’s palm. It would have been unremarkable, until the light reflected off the blade.
The metal was made of a strange, swirled alloy that I’d never seen before. It reminded me of the whorls of frost that sometimes appeared on my skin, except that it was the metal itself that bore the intricate, beautiful pattern.
This was it. I gripped Garrick’s arm, waiting for the pulse of power. Before, it had been a tug that started in my chest and spread through my extremities, making it hard to breathe or think. I waited for the same feeling, or something similar. Maybe it would be subtler when that great power wasn’t actively being mustered to kill someone.
Of course, that was the moment she chose to insert herself.
Fae with a death wish.
She was easily one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, and I had four centuries of life to compare against. Granted, most of the last three had been spent in the coven lands. But this sort of beauty transcended race. Her golden hair was lustrous and thick, fashioned into an ornate braid that fell to her tiny waist. The pale rose gown she wore clung to her body, making it clear that the fulsome hips and generous breasts that contrasted with the nip of her waist were not the work of a corset, but all her own assets.
I’d been around beautiful women plenty. The witches of my own coven were lovely, touched by the Dark God’s otherworldly power. I’d had plenty of time to get over the jealousy that physical comparison might inspire. I was jealous of my sister witches’ control over their power, not of their looks.
But I had never had something worth coveting.
“Your Grace,” the woman said as she swept into a graceful curtsey that would have had me tripping over my feet, even without Isanara weaving in between my legs. “What a treat. You so rarely participate in court life.”
Garrick’s face went blank. The smirk I’d admired a few minutes before was replaced by a series of long, blank blinks.
