If I time my arrival at the Constellation correctly, Mother will only have a few minutes to spare on me before her nightly duties call her away.
In the meantime, I’ll walk this path through the city because the more fae who see Thyra, the safer she’ll be.
None of the citizens currently going about their business will expect me to be here. My appearance is going to cause a stir, and that’s the way I want it.
I want as many of my people as possible to see the Oracle with their own eyes. I want them to know that I have her and I control her.
Of course, the fact that my brother couldn’t see the blade inked into her arm is less than ideal. I wanted my people to see that, too. Regardless, I’ll use every means I can to thwart Mother’s ambitions.
Pursing my lips, I issue a sharp whistle. Then another.
Thyra’s focus flashes back to me and then to the sky, where my blue eagle appears.
He gives an almighty shriek as he soars down toward us, tossing his head at me before he continues through the air above the street, cawing as he goes.
The street is wide enough for him to land once the fae clear space for him, but I whistle again, calling him back into the air.
His screeches and sudden dramatic appearance cause the flurryI wanted.
Every fae on the street flinches and turns to look up, following my beast’s path as he circles the air and flies back to me. Back and forth he goes, his talons outstretched, his red eyes gleaming, tossing his head and shrieking until his cries are piercing.
By the time Thyra reaches the bottom step, every fae has moved to the side of the wide street and is now in the process of sinking to their knees. Even the highborn women in their silken dresses lower themselves to the ground, although their lowborn servants quickly place padded mats beneath them so they don’t dirty their clothes or bruise their knees.
As I scan the crowd, my attention catches on a lowborn man standing toward the back of the throng. He’s slower to kneel than the others, faltering as he takes glances at the fae around him.
My brow furrows. My people are very familiar with what’s required of them in my presence.
I may demand that my metalworkers keep forging, but every other fae must kneel in my presence. Even Mother.
Lowborn servants even carry mats wherever their masters go in case of this exact scenario.
I make out the man’s short beard and sallow skin, a scar striking across his forehead, before he drops to his knees, disappearing fully behind a group of taller highborn.
My instincts prickle, but another heartbeat passes, and no threat emerges.
Quickly returning my attention to Thyra, I remain alert to the impact of her presence on the onlookers. Other threats are bound to lurk within this crowd.
Despite their deferential poses, the fae lining the street stare hard at her while their whispers build, a soft breeze of what will, no doubt, become a wildfire of rumor and gossip.
Thyra’s back is stiff as sheproceeds ahead of me, complying with my order that she remain within my sight at all times. I can’t see her face to know her responses, which could become a problem, particularly as I’ve ensured the ruby circlet is in full view between us.
My people will recognize it for what it is. When Victor designed the circlet, it was our mother who made sure every fae in the city was aware of its uses.
As we walk, most of the male highborn openly mutter beneath their breath, while the women hide their whispers behind delicate fingers raised to their bright lips.
“Who is that lowborn wretch?”
“Why is she chained?”
“Look at how ugly she is.”
“Her boots are filthy.”
“So is her hair.”
“Ugh. She smells like fish.”
The boil of fury within me is unexpected but instant. Yes, Thyra’s appearance is unkempt, but let any of these fucking pampered highborn face what Thyra survived today and see if they’d last minutes, let alone hours. The paint would melt off their faces.
