Not quite hollow words; hopeful, desperate, willful.
A faint smile appeared on his face, then disappeared. Haskel turned and left, his large form barely fitting through the doorway.
I was alone. I took a breath and crossed to the door and shut itwith my hip. Then I stood staring at the armor on the dresser. I had ten minutes before I had to be in the throne room.
I felt stuck to the spot, but I vibrated with energy. Some instinctive part of me sensed stopping was dangerous—stopping was death.
I lurched toward the dresser, picked up the guard’s belt and set it around my waist. I placed the hip quiver on one side and sheathed the short sword on the other, at the crest of my hip. The sheath was a perfect fit.
Then there was my other blade. My knife lay where I had left it, tucked beneath my pillow. I slid it into the pocket on my belt.
The bow was last. I pinned half of my cloak back at the shoulder and slung the bow over my head. The gutstring sat perfectly over my chest.
I tested my gait around the room. The quiver and bow were light and small enough that they didn’t obstruct me, nor the short sword on my left hip. I jogged a circuit and found them both well made; they didn’t jostle or clank.
Last, I stopped at the bedside table where my mother’s journal lay.Don’t overburden yourself,Dorian had said. But he had also told me to bring what was necessary.
If I was going to die today, I would at least die with the one possession I truly loved.
I picked up the journal and slid it into the breast pocket of my jerkin.
Before I left, I braided my hair with shaking fingers. The braid was so tight it hurt my scalp. I tied it off and stared at the human gazing back at me in the mirror.
I looked terrified.
But as my mother would say, terror is only a feeling.
I came downthe staircase to the sound of a crowd in the throne room. Below, what seemed like a whole district in my kingdom had congregated—more fae than I’d ever seen at once. They filled the space to bursting, hundreds of men and women and children.
The court. Much of it, at least.
A certain thrill filled the air, an anticipation. Perhaps it was a thrill for them. Those who didn’t have to face death, or the death of someone they cared for, anyway.
On the dais, the throne was once again occupied. Rhiannon sat with the diadem atop her head, a long scepter in one hand, royal-purple robes spilling past her arms and pooling on the floor around the bramble throne.
I came to the bottom of the stairs and was engulfed in the crowd. Eyes found me, and the fae nearest me seemed to move away. I was, I realized, distinct: clearly no fae, an undersized sword on one hip, a small quiver on the other, and a short bow over my back.
Everywhere I looked, faces displayed dark intensity, the same wildness I’d encountered in Dorian. I wondered if it was possible to look bored if you were Sylvanwild.
“Eurydice.”
Dorian appeared, pushing through the crowd. His sword hung at one hip, and his leather armor was the color of night. His hair had been pulled back, his forehead and cheeks sharp-edged. Or maybe that was just the seriousness he wore on his face.
He came to my side, eyes flitting over my weapons and armor. “Haskel and Mirek did good.” He let out a breath, set his hand on my arm. “This way.”
He led me through the crowd toward the center aisle and the throne. The press of bodies thinned, and offset from the central dais we came into a group of familiar faces.
These were the men I had seen that first night, the ones who had stared and jeered and laughed. Except this time their partners were with them—and every one was a woman. Of twelve pairings, the spiritstag had each time paired a male fae with a female.
“The pettifey arrives,” a voice said. His partner, a tall blue-black-haired fae with a high ponytail and a sword sheathed at each hip, stood beside him and stared like she would like to kill me or eat me, or one and then the other.
“So there is a human,” another voice said from my left. It was almost a question. The voice belonged to a woman with hair cut tight to her jaw; she was petite for a fae, but the silver chakrams on her left hip weren’t. “One less pairing to fret over.”
“The spiritstag chose her,” a third voice said from opposite me—the most familiar of all. I startled, my eyes darting in that direction. “Just like the rest of us.”
There, ten paces opposite and staring at me, stood Faun. She hadn’t donned armor; she still wore the linen tunic and pants I’d seen her cleaning floors in. Her black hair hung loose around her shoulders, and I didn’t see a single weapon on her. Unless you counted those canines.
But her ebony cloak was deceptive. Who knew what lurked under it.
