Underfae.
The underfae have all drawn bows, the arrows pointed straight at us. Kel takes in a breath, mouth a grim line, then holds his hands up. He motions with his chin for us all to do the same. Trembling, I do.
So much for diplomacy.
32
Keldarion
Iwanted to find the underfae. Well, here they are. I just wishit didn’t come at the cost of an arrowhead at my neck.
A member of their group detaches from the rest and ambles toward me. He moves with an unnerving grace, each step so fluid, it doesn’t match his exterior: a large mottled black-and-blue jacket that blends in with the icy wall, a mask made of little bones sewn together that covers everything except for his eyes. His eyes…how strange they are. The irises shine with an infernal light, a brilliant amber. And then there are his horns. Rather, they’re as huge as a caribou’s antlers, jutting out from the sides of the mask, the sharp points pierced by hanging decorations of woven fabric.
He pushes his comrade’s bow away from me so he can step closer until we’re chest to chest. “What do we have here? Trespassers.” His voice is deep and powerful, like slabs of ice falling off a glacier.
“We are no trespassers. We are on a diplomatic mission. I am High Prince Keldarion of Winter?—”
“Prince, pauper, king, it makes no difference down here.” The masked underfae tilts his head, the movement eerily fluid. “Princes are just as blind in the dark.”
I hold my spine straight. Without even turning to look at her, I know Rosalina’s on edge. She’s ready to send her briars ripping through these ice walls at any moment. It’s up to me to find the path for negotiation. “One of your people attempted to assassinate a member of my council. I’m here to discuss the incident with your commander. Can you bring us to them?”
The man before me is silent for a stretch, then looks to his comrades before those glowing eyes settle on me again. “How the warm years have softened a man. From swords to words, from silencing to simpering. But we know how a wicked tongue can pierce as sharp as any blade.”
My hand flexes, itching for the hilt of my sword. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Bring me to your commander so we may discuss terms.”
A sad laugh escapes the man. “The king himself comes to treat with those so below him.”
“I am no king,” I growl.
“King, cleric, chronicler.” The man turns away from me, the swatches of fabric hanging from his antlers swishing together. “Kin, conjurer, keeper of secrets. Kricksmith, kindler, keywarden. Titles given above. All ones we have no use for down here.”
“Then who do you answer to?” Rosalina says, her voice strong. “What title would make you fall to your knees?”
The man stops, looks over his shoulder at her, then keeps walking. But an echo sounds from the other underfae. “Chasm Master,” they whisper. “Chasm Master. Chasm Master.”
“Then let us meet with this Chasm Master,” Rosalina says. “Not as kings or queens or princes or princesses but as the leaders of two groups who desire peace.”
The masked underfae stills for a moment, then motions to his comrades.
Within minutes, our hands are bound, and our weapons are stripped away. The masked underfae reaches to remove the Sword of the Protector from my side, then stops. His eyes shimmer like lava pools as he stares at it.
“You know this blade?” I ask.
“I know this blade,” he responds. “Keep it. The Chasm Master has long waited to speak with the wielder of that sword.”
We begin the trek. The underfae have stamped out our torches, so we walk in pitch-darkness.They must be able to see in the dark.Our footsteps echo on the ground. But only our footsteps. The underfae tread so lightly, they barely even leave an imprint in the frost-covered ground.
The minutes stretch on. “What is your name?” I ask the masked underfae.
“Faustrius,” he responds.
An uncommon name, long out of fashion, but not one unknown to me. These strange fae, they share our language, our names, our etymology, but not our written word, based on the note Farron found.
“How long have you lived in these tunnels?” I ask.
“We do notlivehere,” he snarls, voice turning to gravel. “Wesurvivebecause wehaveto.”
“Why not come to the surface? Were you trapped by the briars? At least one of you made it out,” Rosalina says.
